A Month of Stolen Time
by everworld2662
Summary: Hiro’s guilt buys them 31 days. Slash. Hiro/Adam/Peter.
1. Day One: Hiro

A Month of Stolen Time

**Warnings:** Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume.  
**Set:** Post 2nd Volume finale.  
**Songlist:** _Dépêche Mode_

_There'll be times  
When my crimes  
Will seem almost unforgivable  
I give in to sin  
Because you have to make this life livable  
But when you think I've had enough  
From your sea of love  
I'll take more than another river full  
And I'll make it all worthwhile  
I'll make your heart smile_

- Strangelove, _Depeche Mode_

Day 1  
_Hiro_

It's been at least a month since Hiro's last been here, but nothing's changed. The grave is still undisturbed; the lazy patterns Hiro drew in the loose layer of earth three months back still visible and somehow unsettling to look at. Hiro shakes his head. This vantage point is odd too; he is usually on his knees at this point, getting closer to the ground the closer he gets to the unmarked headstone.

It's late in the afternoon now, and much colder than Hiro anticipated. His coat is poor protection against the wind, and he sticks his hands in his pockets, feeling very Westernized by the action. After a moment of silence, Hiro turns around to warn his companion evenly: "I'm stopping time now."

Peter looks tense as he meets Hiro's gaze. "You know I won't be affected," he answers tightly, and Hiro nods and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I don't suppose there's any use in me trying to talk you out of this?"

Hiro looks away, at the grave, and allows Peter's question to really sink in. The hands in his pockets burrow deeper into the material.

"I think you have already given that attempt your best effort, Peter Petrelli," he admits after a moment, apologetically. It's entirely true, and Hiro only feels the barest flicker of doubt before he squeezes his eyes shut.

Exhuming Adam Monroe is predictably easier than interring him, but not by much. Peter hovers by the sidelines, looking wary and disgusted as Hiro digs his way methodically down deeper to the coffin, using what he has come to think of as his sword. They don't talk; Hiro is far too tense for that, and Peter has redefined the word by standing with electricity cupped in his palm, eyes narrowed and fixed determinedly on the patch of earth Hiro is working away at.

Eventually, a _thump _sound breaks the silence. Hiro's sword has connected with something beneath the earth.

"You're a talented grave robber," Peter quips in that dark way of his, and not for the first time, Hiro silently laments the loss of the Peter he once knew. Aloud, he says, "Come help." Peter shakes his head and moves further back. The blue spark in his palm brightens.

Hiro is left alone to brush away the last layer of earth and try to pry the cypress wood lid off using Kensei's sword as leverage. It's surprisingly hard, and Hiro is surprisingly thankful as the blade refuses to cooperate, repeatedly missing the groove. Eventually Hiro is forced to set it aside and try with his fingernails, kneeling in the pit he has created. At this point, any delay at all comes as a relief.

"You should have buried him with that."

It is an odd comment for Peter to make, tinged with accusation, but Hiro supposes he could be imagining that. After all, every look the Italian throws his way feels like an accusation these days.

"I'm sorry," Hiro finds himself muttering through thick lips, and Peter frowns, misunderstanding him.

"Don't be. He deserved it." One hand still incandescent, Peter stops pacing, and glances downwards. His gaze lingers on the casket a moment too long, even though time has technically stopped and no one but Hiro's counting. "Give him his sword and bury him again, Hiro. Don't repeat your mistake of trusting him. And don't ask me to repeat mine."

About this Hiro is adamant. "I need you."

"No, you don't," Peter protests flatly, pacing again, if the sound of soft footfalls is anything to go by. "You can stop time. You don't need me –"

"I do," Hiro interrupts. His fingernails catch something; Hiro nudges his fingers under the groove, concentrating, and it takes him a moment to find his thread again. "Kensei's powers may be limited to regeneration, but he has overpowered me before."

There are so many holes in this reasoning Hiro's surprised and relieved when Peter simply laughs disbelievingly and leaves it alone. It's a mercy not to have to voice the truth aloud: Hiro doesn't trust himself, and if Kensei's anything like the man he was 400 years ago, he can play him like a grand piano.

For the moment, though, Hiro sets this reality aside and tries to focus. This is his last chance to turn back and leave well enough alone, and he has become jaded enough to turn the option over in his mind completely and logically before deciding to discard it. But his decision is quick. Gaze averted, Hiro scrambles to his feet and pushes the heavy lid of the coffin aside.

At first he can't bear to look. Peter's ominous silence and stillness fill his mind completely and Hiro stands eyes clenched shut for long minutes of dread before he finally dares to blink them open. And when he does, he sees that he is right to be worried: Kensei may have regenerative powers, but thinness is not a disease and Kensei cannot cure it. That painfully familiar face, pillowed by the silk lining of the casket, has gone from angular to distinctly pointy, just shy of gaunt. His skin is also paler than Hiro remembers; there are lines around his mouth and across his forehead that Hiro would wager weren't there before, and dirt streaks across both smooth cheeks. Kensei might heal from any wound inflicted, but he still feels pain, and this fact, illustrated so clearly by his tightly-knit brow and ashen hue, is like a knife in Hiro's stomach.

Behind him, Peter is less impressionable. He is sitting on the edge of the shallow ditch, waist-level, and he reaches out to place a hand on Hiro's arm, tightlipped. It is not a comforting gesture, and Hiro, mouth still in an _o_, jumps. "Let's go."

Belatedly, Hiro obeys, reaching mechanically for Kensei's wrist and squeezing his eyes shut. He is distracted, and his teleportation is sluggish and slow, but when he next opens his eyes, the graveyard is far away, and the Haitian is watching him warily.

Hiro lets Peter do the talking, too preoccupied by the warmth against his fingers.

"Now?"

"Before he wakes up, preferably."

"How much?"

Hiro almost stops him. Kensei is sprawled on the floor, chest rising and falling, pulse beating erratically under his thumb, and Hiro almost intercedes. Instead he kneels there, staring at Kensei's face, the strange femininity of his thin lips, the slightly sallow skin, the crease in the corner of his mouth, forever mocking, as Peter says, far above him, "All of it."

He knows he will regret this, all of it, but right now, with that steady quiver of movement under his fingers, Hiro can't bring himself to care.

**A/N: I'm ridiculously pleased with this. But I'm sure that's just the 2 AM and the Dépêche Mode on repeat talking. Uhm. I took quite a few liberties with this one, but oh well. Again, graveyard! fic. I don't know why I'm always writing Hiro angst there. Not to mention I'm pretty sure Adam's grave doesn't have a headstone. But indulge me and just go with it.**


	2. Day One: Peter

**A Month of Stolen Time**

**Warnings:** Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume. Uh, Peter is kind of a prick in this chapter.  
**Set:** Post 2nd Volume finale.   
**Songlist:** _Dépêche Mode _(yes, I am ridiculous obsessed)

_Don't say you want me  
don't say you need me  
don't say you love me  
it's understood  
don't say you're happy  
out there without me  
I know you can't be  
'cause it's no good_

- It's No Good_, Depeche Mode_

Day One

_Peter_

The apartment looks just the way Peter remembers it, too big and too lavish for anyone to be ever properly comfortable in. The living room, which he is standing in, stretches ridiculously far, the entire length of the room dimly lit by the street lighting outside the windows. The first thing Peter does is move over to the wall and methodically draw every curtain and close every blind. There's no harm in being extra careful, and this apartment has been untouched for so long now that even the most miniscule presence within its walls is suspicious.

"Peter Petrelli?"

Hiro is standing behind him, slightly stooped, looking around with blatant fascination. After a moment Peter realizes the reason for his odd posture; he still hasn't let go of Adam's arm since he grabbed it to teleport. It's dangling grotesquely from Hiro's fingers, suit sleeve bunched up to reveal pale skin, making Adam look like a puppet. The image is pleasing, factored in with Peter's newfound knowledge of just who was pulling the strings last time they came face to face.

Meanwhile, Hiro blunders on. "I do not know this place. You will have to show me –"

Peter points him wordlessly to a mahogany door opposite the entrance and Hiro begins to drag the inert Adam across the parquet floor. Peter watches in silence, faintly relieved that Hiro hasn't bothered trying to recruit his help again this time. He doesn't want him getting the wrong idea; after all, he may have agreed to help guard Adam, but he is far from sharing Hiro's solicitous attitude.

Eventually, laboriously, they disappear from view into the bedroom, Adam's expensive looking shoes vanishing last of all. Peter stands alone in the living room for a moment, in the dark. This is Nathan's apartment, Nathan's vastly uncomfortable, gratuitously expensive home, and his presence infiltrates every atom in the air so powerfully that Peter allows himself the brief delusion that it is Nathan struggling to find the light switch in the guest bedroom, and not Hiro.

"Peter Petrelli?"

The delusion doesn't last long; Peter barely has time to comb a hand through his hair in exasperation before going and flicking the switch for him. The time traveler throws him a painfully deferential smile in thanks, but Peter, hovering in the doorway, barely notices. He is staring at Adam, propped clumsily on the floor against the metallic bed frame, and even though he has never hated the man more, his presence here feels _right_, as if this apartment is a hall of justice. Adam Monroe is responsible for Nathan's disappearance; and Peter will punish him here, in Nathan's own home. The thought brings a smile to his face. Hiro misreads his expression completely.

"Do not worry about that. I will take care of him now."

Peter catches his meaning. Adam's clothes are soiled from his sojourn underground and his once smooth face is grimy with earth. He needs a wash, and Peter is just thankful Hiro has volunteered for the task. His skin is beginning to itch with the need to get out of the house after only ten minutes; Nathan's presence has suddenly and abruptly become stifling instead of comforting. Hiro, meanwhile, is still looking at him inquisitively. Peter gives him terse directions to the bathroom, ends the conversation too hastily, and doesn't care. He heads for the front door at a near-run and patters down the stairwell to the distant sound of water running.

When he gets back, Hiro is sitting alone in the shadowed living room staring at the television. It's off.

"You can switch things on, you know," Peter tells him, trying to sound friendly. "Lights, definitely."

Hiro starts and swivels to glance towards the closed door behind which Adam is presumably still sleeping. There's an expression suspiciously like concern on his face; it makes something tighten in Peter's throat and he swallows harsh words back with difficulty. But there is no point saying them: they both already know that they are at cross purposes where Adam is concerned.

Biting his lip, he goes to sit beside Hiro in the dark.

"Kensei woke up briefly when I was…" The time traveler sounds shaken up; he doesn't bother finishing the sentence. "He called me by my name."

Peter leaps up. His hand is bright with fire before Hiro can protest. "How long ago did this happen?"

"No! No! It is fine, Peter Petrelli." Hiro looks distraught, but Peter can't help but notice that he hasn't risen from the couch. "Kensei is asleep now. And he did not recognize me immediately, but only after a few minutes. All he remembered is my name. He is no danger. Please sit down."

"What else did he say?"

"Nothing," Hiro insists earnestly. "Peter, please sit down."

Perhaps it's the shock of hearing his first name only, but Peter does it.

"Why is he remembering so fast?"

Peter shrugs. He talks to parquet beneath his feet: "I had Nathan's picture with me for ages before it meant something. But I wasn't trying to remember, I was…I was trying to forget." He shakes his head, voice going husky. "You're the first thing Adam's seen since… And his body is actively trying to heal his memory loss, even if it's not…conscious. That must be why – maybe if I'd seen Nathan right after losing my memories, I would've –"

"Peter Petrelli."

Peter looks up, startled by the interruption. Hiro doesn't interrupt, he just talks over you, so animated and sincere and convinced that the world is a wonderful place that Peter wants to throttle him.

"I am sorry about flying man."

For a moment, Peter cannot speak. He cannot even breathe. When he opens his mouth to try, Hiro forestalls him, babbling, "I should not have said anything. I am sorry. You loved him."

"He's my brother," Peter corrects automatically, even though that is definitely not a viable defense as far as he and Nathan are concerned.

Hiro pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a habit that will eventually become familiar. "You loved him," he repeats matter-of-factly, and Peter wonders if there's some unnoticed culture clash going on here or if Hiro is better at reading people than the evidence shows.

In the meantime, however, there's no safe answer. After a moment of painfully awkward silence, Peter reaches for the TV remote and makes a show of flicking past several channels to find something good. Personally, he doesn't care, but he is done with talking, and this is as good an excuse as any not to. Beside him, Hiro reclines automatically, mesmerized by the colours on the screen, and midway through the leading character's sixth car chase, Peter feels himself sinking against the upholstery as well. He feels tired, and it's easier than it should be to switch off, only snapping out of his half asleep state as the credits are rolling. Outside it has gone from dark to pitch black, and hunger is gnawing away at his stomach. Peter sits up slightly and rubs his eyes.

Beside him, Hiro is sleeping, head on his chest, glasses slightly askew and dangerously close to the edge of his nose. Looking at him, Peter feels the irrational urge to lean forward and push them back up, and quashes it with difficulty. Truthfully, he is surprised to find Hiro asleep; he chose something with a lot of explosions and heroic rescue missions for a reason, but perhaps something more old-fashioned would have been more to Hiro's taste.

Take _"Takezo Kensei" _for instance.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, Peter is irritated with himself. Just thinking about Adam makes him feel restless and angry, and after a moment he gets up and goes to get a blanket from the wardrobe. The sofa is comfortable enough to sleep on, and Peter drapes the blanket around himself, using the armrest as a pillow. Hiro can make his own arrangements as far keeping warm is concerned; Peter isn't playing host here, and as long as nobody sets foot in Nathan's room, he doesn't care.

He lies awake a long while.

**A/N: Sorry about Peter being such an asshole. It is necessary. It's also kind of fun. But maybe that's just me. **

**A/N 2: This chapter is so unwieldy. Uhgh.**

**A/N 3: …I am a shameless cross poster. Still, it weirds me out when fics of mine are up on LJ and not C'mon! I **_**started **_**on all those centuries ago, with that incredibly appalling Artemis Fowl het fic I will never forgive myself for.**


	3. Day Two: Hiro

A Month of Stolen Time

**Warnings:** Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume.  
**Set:** Post 2nd Volume finale.  
**Songlist:** _Dépêche Mode_

_Precious and fragile things  
Need special handling  
My God what have we done to you?_

_I pray you learn to trust  
Have faith in both of us  
And keep room in your hearts for two_

- Precious, _Depeche Mode_

Day Two  
_Hiro_

At first, when Hiro opens his eyes, he doesn't know where he is. It is hard to discern immediately, since his head is at an odd angle and a floor of polished wood, dappled with sunlight, fills his vision entirely. He stretches, uncurls his toes, and props himself up on his elbow, completely unfussed, before the name _Kensei _finds it's way past his lips and he bolts upright.

Silence answers him. The apartment feels empty, and for a moment Hiro is convinced that Peter has had a change of heart and dragged Kensei back to graveyard, or worse. He looks around, frantically. There is a slight depression in the couch next to him, still warm to the touch, but it does little to calm his paranoia.

"Peter?"

There is a sound, and Hiro swivels around to see one of the many doors swinging open to reveal Peter standing in the doorway, chewing something. The empath swallows before finally, reluctantly, meeting Hiro's gaze. His hair is only just beginning to grow back, and he is already starting to hide behind it.

"Good morning," he says, a little tonelessly, coming forward into the living room.

"And good morning to you, Peter Petrelli," Hiro answers formally. "What time is it?"

"Only 8. Worried he'll be awake?" Peter tilts his head towards the closed door of the spare bedroom, voice sarcastic. Hiro refuses to take the bait; he can tell that Peter's restless today, and looking for a fight.

"If he wakes up in a strange room with no memories, he may become alarmed," Hiro says instead, trying to be careful, but only sounding earnest. He hates the way English reduces his nuances down to naivety or jagged enthusiasm. Theoretically Peter knows him well enough to understand Hiro's altered dialect, but in practice, right now, they're like strangers.

"Go ahead, then," Peter answers dismissively. He looks drained, going from aggressive to defensive to retreating in the space of five minutes. "I won't stop you."

He turns away, conversation finished, but Hiro follows him into the kitchen, determined to have his say.

"We must talk."

Peter shrugs, and Hiro grabs him by the arm in desperation. Dark eyes meet his; just that easily, Peter is angry again.

"We need to agree on what we are going to tell him. He will have many questions." Hiro takes a deep breath and hardens his heart. "He may not remember what he has done, but he is still Takezo Kensei. If he suspects we are lying to him…"

"He usually notices when he's being lied to, yeah," Peter mutters, sounding almost normal for once. "And he notices when he's being locked up, too." His voice goes thoughtful, brows furrowed, and Hiro relaxes slightly, forgetting that Peter is much crueler when he doesn't mean to be than when he does. "Okay. We don't tell him he can heal, or that I can heal, or that you can jump time…we don't tell him anything about any powers. And I'll try to keep my temper in control around him."

By _temper _Peter means _powers. _They're one and the same for him. Hiro lets go of him as though burned.

"No! _No._ We are not punishing him, Peter Petrelli! He is a villain, but…we are heroes, and we must carry out _justice_, not punishment."

"I'm not a hero," Peter answers, voice full of such bitterness Hiro impulsively reaches for his arm again.

"Because you could not save flying man?" he asks quietly. He hopes his expression and the gentle pressure he is exerting on Peter's wrist are softening the question, because it sounds painfully harsh out loud. Anyway, it doesn't matter because Peter chooses not to answer, brushing Hiro's hand off his arm with an agitated look on his face. He starts pacing again.

"Look. This is just, this is just what I think we should do. I don't want to tell him too much."

"I will not lie to him," Hiro answers, jaw tight.

"No," Peter retorts, gone from softness to sarcasm again. "You'll just bury him alive again after a little taste of freedom."

Hiro swallows.

"I cannot let Sylar kill him and steal his power. With it, Sylar would become invincible. Immortal. I cannot allow that to happen! We are saving his life, Peter Petrelli. His, and other people's lives, too."

Peter doesn't say anything for a long moment. He has stopped pacing. When he speaks, his voice is soft. "It would have been kinder to leave him down there."

Hiro pauses, breathes, pauses and then breathes again. His glasses are sliding down his nose, and when he pushes them back up, the gesture does not comfort him as much as usual. His hand is shaking ever so slightly and he presses it against the side of his trousers automatically. This Peter is a smokescreen and Hiro knows that, knows that the real Peter is hiding somewhere underneath this brittle exterior, but that doesn't make his words hurt any less. Worse, it doesn't make them any less true.

"I will not lie to him."

"Fine." Peter's jaw tightens and for a moment, just a moment, he looks like nothing more than a stubborn child. "Then I will."

Hiro doesn't know why, but the notion that Peter should get to talk with Kensei first is suddenly abhorrent, and not only because leaving Peter in a room alone with him is just about as safe as leaving a lion's cage unlocked at a zoo with lots of children visiting.

"No," he protests, trying and failing not to sound too insistent, "it's okay, I will do it, Peter Petrelli, I will do it!"

Peter shrugs again, indifferently, before stepping aside. "Be my guest."

At this point, Hiro thinks, Peter should leave, or at least stop staring at him, but of course he doesn't. It makes Hiro uncomfortable, but then again, just looking at the closed door and anticipating talking to Kensei makes him feel _downright terrified_, so he does it quickly, like ripping off a band aid. The dimness in the room is silent and thick, and for a moment, Hiro thinks that perhaps Kensei is still asleep.

But then…"_Thank _you," says a familiar voice from the corner, and _oh_, it's almost as nice as hearing Kensei say his name, like he did earlier, _hiro, hiro_, _hero?_, syllables slack and open and vulnerable sounding in his mouth.

He looks around. Kensei is sitting up on the bunk bed, squinting at him in the dark, lips pursed and pupils dilated. He looks irritated and careless and familiar and it's absolutely glorious; Hiro's heart is in his throat and his glasses are on the tip of his nose and he does not care.

"Finally. I've been trying to get that door open for hours to no avail; I was beginning to think something nefarious was going on."

"Kensei." Hiro moves forward, dizzy with delight, a little like all those times he flung his arms up and exclaimed _flying man!, _to Nathan's patent embarrassment.

"I beg your pardon?" The blonde sounds affronted, and Hiro hastens to explain.

"That is your name; Takezo Kensei. You are a great swordsman. I am Hiro Nakamura." He starts to bow his head, then, on second thought, sticks out his hand awkwardly instead. Kensei shakes it after a long moment, staring at him with a wrinkle on his forehead as if he thinks Hiro's a little dim.

"Yes, I know." Kensei says eventually, slowly. "Now. Where am I and what am I doing here? And why can't I seem to remember?"

Hiro opens his mouth to lie and finds that he can't. He wants to; he knows he has to, and that heroes have to do hard things sometimes, all the time, most of the time, and that being a hero is not always heroic, he should know that by now, and if it wasn't so hard it would be easy and then anybody could do it – but not him, not this, he _can't_. Peter saves him.

"There was an accident."

Kensei starts visibly at the new voice, glancing around to find the speaker, and Hiro wonders whether he can recognize it, and wonders whether he wants him to. Peter comes forward slightly, hovering in the doorway, and Kensei's eyes eventually find his. There is no flash of recognition, only more confusion, brow furrowed and mouth more wrinkly than usual. He looks at Peter, listens to Peter, to the blunt, level honesty in his voice and Hiro looks and listens too, wondering how many times Peter's had to do this kind of thing and how he got so good at it.

Kensei doesn't ask the flood of questions Hiro expects. Clearly, the memories within him are not sleeping deeply; he looks puzzled and frustrated by Peter's explanation, as if he knows, somehow, that it is not quite the truth. Later, Hiro voices his concerns to Peter.

"Perhaps you should not have done that, Peter Petrelli. If he remembers the truth…"

"Is that likely?" Peter asks, in a voice that suggests he does not think so. "What order do you think he's remembering things in, anyway?"

Hiro thinks of Kensei saying his name. "Perhaps it is chronological," he offers, stumbling a little over the word.

"Then we'd have forever," Peter answers, with a smile that is not quite as mocking as usual. "But I think it's got more to do with – outside stimulus. Like it was for me. He – he sees things and he knows they're familiar and he unconsciously, automatically heals that part of his brain, I don't know…"

"In that case," Hiro begins, worriedly, but Peter cuts him off.

"So we don't take him to any cemeteries." He shrugs, unperturbed. "That's easy; I wasn't planning on hanging out there much anyways."

Hiro wonders if Peter will feel the same in a couple of weeks, once Nathan's death has sunk in, but he doesn't say anything. It's okay; lately Hiro's become rather good at holding his tongue. After all, practice makes perfect.

**A/N: Much happier with this, thought it did take me eons to write. But, hell. I'm enjoying it so much. Hopefully you are too? (I'm feeling a little more comfortable with Peter, now, so it's all good.)**


	4. Day Three: Peter

A Month of Stolen Time

**Warnings:** Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume.  
**Set:** Post 2nd Volume finale.  
**Songlist:** Stereophonics – _Drowning_

_I don't know why  
I don't know what is wrong  
Oh no  
Is karma gonna get me?  
At times that's all I see  
It's not real_

Day Three

_Peter_

When Peter wakes up the next morning, face down on Nathan's couch in Nathan's apartment, he doesn't quite remember what he's doing there. Nonetheless, the feeling of suede against his face is warm and soft and so familiar that he lies there for a while without moving, drifting in and out of sleep, sure that the answer will come to him eventually.

When it does, Peter sits up, swallows and rubs his eyes. He can't keep crashing on the couch, not with Hiro there as well, it's too awkward. But the only alternative is Nathan's room, and Peter can't even bring himself to cross the threshold yet. _Baby steps_, he reminds himself, mantra-like and self-disgusted. Maybe he'll try going into a new room today, something other than the unspecific living room and bathroom and kitchen, something that will really drive Nathan's absence home. Hiro might be tiptoeing around him like he's a shell shock victim lately, but Peter's not an idiot, and he knows a thing or two about healing. In nurse-speak he'd be _not coping well_, all soft sounding, and now Peter finds himself regretting every time the euphemism has ever crossed his lips. He's _bloody awful_.

He gets to his feet slowly, ducking his head to hide his yawn and turns around.

"Adam!"

The man is standing in the next room, smiling at him and _oh god_, he's wearing Nathan's clothes. It's unbearable; Peter's palm inflames with heat all of a sudden, fingers tingling, and not a second too soon, he shoves his hand behind his back, breathing deeply. Adam is still watching him, smile fading.

"No, no. I'm afraid you've been misinformed. My name is _Takezo Kensei_."

He can barely pronounce the name, hesitating over all the different syllables, but other than that, his voice is as dry and sharp as ever. It takes Peter back to his months with the Company, hearing that voice through the wall in the suffocating confinement of his cell like a breath of fresh air. Nauseatingly enough, Adam's voice hasn't lost its edge, and the lightning cupped in Peter's palm dims and dies before anger kicks in again.

"That's what Hiro calls you. I call you Adam."

Adam blinks at him, clearly disconcerted. He looks a little embarrassed too, but more on Peter's behalf than on his own. "Hiro?" he calls, moving forward. "I think your friend might be a little dim."

Adam's phrasing is different than what Peter remembers. He used to sound as if he was saying everything in one breath, keeping a little bit back, moving his mouth as little as possible, cynical and dry and always with those raised eyebrows and that inimitable…crispness. _This_ Adam is all about _emphasis_; he lingers around the word _friend_, making it sound doubtful and a little distasteful. It's the smallest of differences, and it irritates Peter far more than it should.

Hiro's polite voice shakes him out of his thoughts. The man is standing a little way off, peering at him through his glasses, expression apprehensive but unmistakably happier than he has looked in a long time. "Good morning."

The pleasantry takes Peter aback. Looking back and forth between Hiro and Adam – _Adam_, who _shot_ a woman in front of him without the smallest flicker of remorse –he can't help but think that _good morning _doesn't quite cut it.

Adam, meanwhile, is examining him with frightening astuteness. He meets Peter's eyes and Peter stares back, trying to read that gaze, to discern what Adam is thinking – or more to the point, remembering. Nothing, apparently, since after a moment, the blonde looks away, back at Hiro, and shrugs. There is no flicker of recognition in those oddly colorless eyes, and Peter tells himself he is not disappointed, only relieved.

The silence hangs for a long while. While Peter and Adam shift uncomfortably, Hiro beams and adjusts his glasses, completely oblivious to the awkwardness of the moment. As a last resort, Peter finds himself testing out his mind reading: _What's he doing here?_ It takes a few goes before Hiro jumps visibly and stares at him.

"Oh. Kensei has some…questions."

"And the appetite of a ravenous beast," Adam puts in in that languorous way of his – not the one Peter remembers, though – Kensei's, perhaps?

"Oh, yeah. Food." It's completely slipped his mind, though now that thinks about it, he feels kind of hungry. There's another awkward moment as he tries to shuffle around them to get to the kitchen, made all the more painful by the fact that Hiro is simultaneously trying to usher Adam towards the dining table, and Adam is doing everything at once, from walking to gazing around to casting quizzical looks at the both of them. Escaping to the relative obscurity of the kitchen is a relief, though Peter can still see Adam and Hiro through the half open door. He keeps an eye on them as he inspects the contents of the fridge, just in case.

"So – where am I?"

"We are in the apartment of Peter Petrelli," Peter hears Hiro answer, erroneously, though he isn't to know that.

Adam sounds impatient, something else Peter is not used to hearing from his lips. "No, _where are we_? In the _world_?"

"We are in the United States of America. New York City."

Peter comes out in time to see Adam's expression of confusion.

"But I'm not American?" He sounds a little horrified by the idea, not to mention completely baffled. "I'm…Japa_nese_?"

"You're English." Peter places a packet of sliced bread on the table and a tall glass of water, without looking up. When he does, Adam's eyes have switched targets.

"Well, that makes more sense." The blonde reaches for the glass; in between gulps of water, he manages to say, "But I _have _lived in Japan, haven't I? I know I have; I can _feel _it."

He stuffs bread into his mouth whilst waiting for an answer, enthusiastic and excited andso different from the Adam Peter knows, so utterly alien, that it's much easier to hate him. Peter doesn't quite trust himself to speak, so he nods instead.

"A long time?"

Peter nods again and hides a smile.

"And – who _are_ you two? How do I know you?" He glances sideways at Hiro and waves a piece of bread at him as he talks. "No offence, but you don't look like the kind of person I'd want in my camp. Not quite…_muscled_ and frightening looking enough."

"You'd be surprised. We manage fine," Peter tells him in his hostile tone.

"Yes," Adam agrees slowly, eyes narrowing. "I imagine you do; I remember a sword."

It's lying beneath one of the couches in the living room, mere metres away, and Peter is relieved to see that Hiro at least has enough self control to not glance in its direction as he blurts out, "You remember my sword?"

"Was it? I thought it belonged to – a swordsmith's daughter."

Adam's expression is one of confusion, but Peter doesn't think anyone in the room can feel as confused as he does. The entire conversation sounds bizarrely anachronistic, even to his relatively untrained ears, and beside him, Hiro is frowning. "What year do you think we are in?"

Adam blinks. He is no longer eating, and his glass of water is long forgotten. "I…I don't know. That's odd." He scrubs a hand in front of his mouth and emerges from behind it looking calmer. "And this accident you mentioned, Peter."

It's the first time Adam's used his name, and Peter hates himself for noticing. "Yes?"

"It fits. And yet it doesn't seem to fit _completely_, as if there is something wrong with what you're telling me." His expression hardens, vowels shorten, and the Adam Peter knows surfaces for the barest second. "Let _me _tell you this: life-debt to you aside, I do not enjoy being lied to."

Hiro, of course, begins to protest, but it is Peter that Adam is glaring at. Well, if he's waiting for the truth, he will wait a long while; Peter meets his gaze, unapologetic and silent. This close inspection allows him to see things that have so far escaped his notice, like the fact that Adam's eyes are swollen and red rimmed. It's hardly surprising that the man hasn't been doing much sleeping.

"Fine," Adam says finally, when the silence has gone on far too long. "I understand."

As the day progresses, Peter starts to worry that maybe he does, a little too well. He hasn't meant to make his antipathy obvious, but Adam avoids him as though he knows, in the back of his mind, that there is no love lost between them.

At least he doesn't ask any more questions – well, not important ones, instead choosing to quiz Hiro about the intricacies of modern life. Some things he appears to remember, others, he is baffled and intrigued by. There seems to be no pattern to what he knows. Hiro answers his questions with enthusiasm; they forget that Peter is even in the room, tinkering together with the TV remote, Hiro struggling not to laugh at Adam's wide eyed wonder. The time traveler is such a child, and whilst Peter has little patience with it, Adam seems to find it delightful. Watching them, Peter feels a little disgusted, and a little left out. To distract himself from what he is fast recognizing as self-pity, he leaves them alone in the dining room together and goes to look at Nathan's study.

He doesn't get past the door, with its polished wood and ridiculously ornate door handle. Mahogany? Nathan would know. Peter hasn't got a clue. He can't even bring himself to push it open.

"Peter Petrelli? Are you alright?"

Peter starts.

"Hiro! I'm fine. What're you doing here; where's…?" He turns around to find that morning has become late afternoon, and the corridor is dark. Rain is suddenly audible on the roof.

"Kensei was tired. He returned to sleep. I think he is still recovering." Hiro yawns and covers it with two hands. He starts to walk back towards the kitchen, and Peter follows, still disoriented. "I am hungry. Can we eat something this time, Peter Petrelli? Is there any food here? Your apartment is not very well stocked. Maybe we should get takeaway. Can you get waffles in takeaway?"

"Did you lock the door?"

Hiro stops walking. "Door?"

He has to speak loudly to be heard over the rain. "The door to Adam's room, did you lock it?"

Hiro's blank expression is answer enough. "There is no need –" he begins to protest, painfully earnest, and Peter feels a great welling of frustration. Why won't Hiro understand? Adam is dangerous; Adam is, in fairytale terms, the villain, and yet Hiro won't stop defending him – won't stop _trusting _him. It's as though the time traveler has inherited all of Peter's former gullibility, and it's sickening to witness.

"Do I need to remind you of all the things that he's done? Adam's a cold blooded killer, Hiro. He shot Victoria Pratt in front of me, he killed your _father, _andgod knows how many others – even when he was _Takezo Kensei_ he betrayed you. Then he betrayed _me_." Peter looks down, unable to keep staring at the stubborn expression on Hiro's face. "Don't forget he tried to release the virus. Do I really need to convince you to stop defending him? Don't you think this might be more about your guilt than keeping his power from Sylar?"

The even patter of rainfall greets his words, and Peter raises his head. Hiro is standing there, mute. There is no even-handed, neutral sounding reply, no gratingly cheerful idiom about trust or second chances thrown in his face, no overblown speech about heroes and their duties…there is nothing at all. The bubble of optimism that Peter has been attacking ever since Hiro concocted this insane plan has finally burst, and Peter is suddenly terrified by its loss.

"You are right. I have been selfish. Bringing Adam here was…selfish. Burying him to begin with was selfish. I should have killed him. I should kill him now." Hiro's face is as blank as his voice behind his glasses. He takes them off and it is like a piece of amour being removed and discarded. Surrender. "But I can't."

Peter stares at him. He is fractured, _quartered_ even – and hung over water, if the tales are to be believed (privately, Peter wonders if this has ever happened to Adam, and what they tried afterwards, when it didn't work). A part of him wants to say, _yes, you can_, another, _then I will_, yet another, _no, you mustn't_, and the rest of him just wants to pull Hiro against him and hug him and push his glasses back onto his nose and hand him back his amour and, _yes_, strap it on, and listen to him talking about heroes again, about them being heroes –

"I'm sorry," he tries instead, softly.

It doesn't work the miracle he'd hoped.

**A/N: I hear you ask, **_**is any of this going to be happy**__**Is there ever going to be a chapter without one of them angsting? **_**To answer your question, yes – but very, very far down the line. And you know, it won't last long. XD On a side note, though, I keep writing ahead! I can't help it; I've already written 10 pages off random interspersed stuff that's going to happen later. **

**A/N 2: Christ, the chapters get longer and longer. **


	5. Day Four: Hiro

A Month of Stolen Time

**Warnings:** Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume.  
**Set:** Post 2nd Volume finale.  
**Songlist:** _Keane_

"It's a lonely end that you will come to"  
_Your Eyes Open, _Keane

Day Four

_Hiro_

By the forth day, Hiro has stopped being impressed with Peter's apartment and is starting to feel confined by the walls. There is no warm, vaguely comforting depression beside him in the couch when he wakes up this morning, either, but this time he does not panic. The flat _feels_ empty, but Hiro realizes now that that means nothing; Kensei is still sleeping behind his closed door, and Peter is still pacing somewhere, probably. Hiro doesn't go looking for him. He needs breakfast before he feels anywhere ready for that conversation.

The kitchen is like a foreign land. Hiro's never been particularly good at remembering what goes where, but this room is so big he spends an entire five minutes opening cupboards until he finds where the bowls are kept. Even then, it takes him a few more minutes to decide on which is the appropriate size for breakfast. Eventually he picks at random and places it on the counter. Now, cereal, milk. A spoon. This is ridiculous, he thinks after a minute of fruitless searching; _this _is not his apartment. It looks like he will have to confront Peter on an empty stomach after all.

Disgruntled, Hiro walks back out to the living room. Locating Peter in this labyrinth of doors will probably similarly lengthy and difficult, and it's a little daunting. He'd think it was cool if he wasn't so _hungry_, navigating this big, empty maze, but there is nothing cool about any of this, in retrospect.

"Peter Petrelli?"

There is no answer, and Hiro doesn't call out again. He feels like he is hunting down a sleeping dragon in order to prod it, and he should know; after all didn't Kensei and he do that at some point?

"Hiro."

Hiro freezes. The notion of dragons must be a little too deeply ingrained in his mind, because he doesn't dare to look around. There's no need, though, because a second later, a hand touches his shoulder and Peter moves into view.

"Is everything okay. Do you need something."

Hiro, even with his shaky grasp of English, knows enough to assume the sentences are questions, though there is nothing in Peter's inflection to indicate it. He frowns.

"Good morning." Then, by way of explanation, he adds, "Your kitchen is very confusing, Peter Petrelli."

"Oh. You're hungry?" Peter sounds incredulous. His hand falls from Hiro's shoulder. The movement is somehow as irritating as the question.

"I am used to regular meals," Hiro begins to tell him with no small amount of indignation, but then he stops, blinking.

"This is not your flat, is it?"

"What?" Peter presses his lips together and swallows. The action is somehow a confirmation; the Petrellis even _confess_ in sign language. "Of course it is. What are you talking about?"

Things are starting to make a little more sense, all of a sudden. Hiro hesitates briefly before grabbing Peter's hands and pulling him, so taken off-guard that he is unresisting, out of the shadows. The empath shies away from the light, tugging his hands back in a belated defensive reflex, but Hiro hangs on doggedly and stares up at his face. There are tears tracks down his cheeks, visible in the lemon glow of the hallway lighting. There are no windows in this section of the house.

"I am sorry."

Hiro releases him and Peter pulls back sharply, looking confused and disoriented. He keeps his hands slightly raised and narrows his eyes as Hiro searches for words to explain.

"I came looking for you expecting fire and I got water instead." It's the truth, and though a little cryptic, Hiro thinks that if Peter can understand the brush of his brother's hand, he can understand this. "This is Nathan Petrelli's flat, isn't it?"

The moment the question leaves his lips he regrets it; Peter flinches visibly at the sound of that name.

"Yeah," he admits after a moment, half defensive, half nonchalant. Peter cards a hand through his hair and gives Hiro another long, wary look under his eyelashes. "Yeah, it's Nathan's apartment. I'm staying here until he…gets back. What's your point?"

"I had not realized," Hiro answers, slowly, and Peter just blinks at him, refusing to understand.

"Well it doesn't change anything; I said I'd do this; I'm not going to go back on that." Full stops do not seem to be in Peter's vocabulary either, as though speaking things quickly enough will stop Hiro from answering. It doesn't.

"You believe Kensei is responsible for what happened to flying man." Hiro chooses his words carefully this time, and Peter doesn't flinch. He doesn't seem to react at all. "If you think bringing Kensei here will somehow…I said we were heroes, Peter. Please promise me you will not hurt him."

Finally Peter meets his eyes. "I can't make that promise."

The words spill out of his mouth before he can stop them. "_Kensei did not kill Nathan Petrelli_!"

"No," Peter agrees with a shudder, "Because Nathan isn't dead."

"He is," Hiro answers, and it feels like the cruelest thing he's ever done, with the exception of burying a man alive forever with the knowledge he would live through every second of it.

"You're wrong," Peter hisses, hand covering his eyes. He leans against the wall and slides down it. "I'm his brother. I'd know if he was…he's not…"

"He is," Hiro repeats, softer, and Peter lets out a sob he muffles with his fingers. It's enough to open the floodgates. After a moment of controlled breathing, Peter seems to give in, letting his legs slide flat and his shoulder slump. His frame shakes as he cries, head tilted back against the wall, eyes scrunched shut and a hand still covering his mouth.

Hiro just stands and stares, unsure of what he is seeing.

"Peter?" he tries, tentatively, but nothing changes; the other man doesn't even seem to hear him. After a moment Hiro gets down on his knees and touches Peter's arm, gently.

"Peter? I am sorry about…_Nathan_."

Silence. Then, "No. No you're not. I asked you. To go back and save him. You wouldn't."

Hiro doesn't say anything for a moment. His chest feels painfully tight when he eventually answers, softly, "Vengeance is for villains." It sounds like a catchphrase, meaningless, and Peter laughs, choking half way on another sob. He seems unable to stop.

Hiro lets him cry, given up on getting him to stop, thinking that if Peter can only get this out of his system…another oddly literal English expression; it sounds trite and inadequate in his head, because Peter doesn't stop, he doesn't get it out of his system; it seems he has an inexhaustible supply of tears, and eventually it's _Hiro _who's had enough, it's Hiro who exclaims, voice jaggedly staccato with frustration, "_Stop it!"_. He sounds for all the world like he did when he was eight and throwing a temper tantrum about not getting his favourite comic, but it seems to work. Peter makes a strangled sound behind his hair and glares up at him, expression venomous, but Hiro can't help but notice he's stopped crying. "You are making yourself unworthy. I will not allow that, Peter Petrelli."

"Won't you?" Peter hisses. The hand covering his mouth comes away very quickly and settles against the floor in a fist. "What makes you think you have the right –"

"_Stop it!_" Hiro interrupts again, struggling to keep his voice sharp. Peter's reaction is similar and unsettling; he _does _stop, mid-sentence, blinking at him with something like astonishment on his face. His Adam's apple moves in a swallow, and he breathes in, the first deep breath he's taken in a while. For some reason, Hiro finds himself thinking of Ando, Ando who likes girls like Niki who are sharp and strong and striking and really nothing at all like soft spoken Hiro. Except that Hiro's starting to realize that as far as Peter's concerned, soft spoken doesn't really work, and that's why it _hasn't _been working all the times Hiro's tried.

"I don't know what to do," Peter admits after a moment into the silence, and Hiro's heart skips a beat. Peter can't not know what to do. Peter _always _knows what to do. Hiro has only been able to rest easy so far, laughing with Kensei, de_fending _Kensei, be_cause _Peter is angry enough for the both of them. But that isn't fair, and this realization is like surfacing for air. But in the meantime Peter is waiting for an answer – Hiro think he might even be waiting for an order. This idea is unsettling and disturbing, but it takes a firm hold, and a second later Hiro says,

"You can begin by making breakfast. I am extremely hungry, Peter Petrelli. Can you make waffles?"

For a moment, Peter doesn't move, and Hiro is afraid he has made a horrible mistake with him. He has never done this before, after all; never _acted _like this before – except jokingly, perhaps, with Ando – and the idea that somebody could _thrive _on it…somebody like Peter…well, Ando probably knows more about that than he does. But that's something else he doesn't want to think about.

"Breakfast," Peter repeats, dispassionately, and Hiro dares sneak a peek at his expression. He's relieved to see Peter is smiling, if wryly. "And what should I do after that?"

Hiro reaches for his glasses. He can feel his cheeks going pink and it's _awful_. Doing this feels _weird_. He can't imagine anyone liking it from this perspective either.

"One thing at a time," he answers eventually, and Peter grins. Hiro can't help but feel relieved he has used the right expression. English still seems so foreign at times, and doubly so when he's talking to Peter because there are a million meanings in every word and Hiro can't keep up.

In the end, they make breakfast together, and no waffles. Peter points to things before Hiro even has to ask where they are, and after a few minutes, the awkwardness is less palpable between them. Actually, by the time they sit down at the living room table with matching bowls of cereal, it's almost non existent, and Hiro feels up to chatting. Peter isn't very responsive, but Hiro's used to that, and somehow it's a lot less lonely than before. They've reached some kind of understanding, on some kind of level, and if Hiro doesn't look at it too closely, it might just work. He thinks. He's not sure. He might be reading it wrongly; he has a tendency to do that, especially with Peter.

But he doesn't really mind as much anymore.

"There is something I have not told you."

The moment he says it, he regrets it. Peter freezes, spoon halfway to his lips, and his eyes narrow, a gesture Hiro is beginning to recognize as a warning sign.

"I do not know if what we are doing…" Peter's eyes don't let him off the hook. "When I went to the future, I saw Sylar. I know he is back, or he is coming back _soon_. And I know he is immortal; I saw you try to kill him and – and he did not die."

Peter throws down his spoon and the sound makes Hiro jump. "That doesn't mean anything! You understood that he killed Adam from _that_? He could have killed my niece, or somebody else with my powers –"

"No, Peter Petrelli," Hiro interrupts. "I went further forward in time. I checked. In this future Sylar outlived us all. He lived on and on and on. And he did not age. There is only one man who can do that."

"I could do it if I tried," Peter says roughly, unwilling to accept this explanation. "Or Claire – or it could be somebody else we don't even know about. You told me you had proof that doing this would stop Sylar. _That's_ why I'm doing this, Hiro – it has nothing to do with…I know _your _motives but _I'm _here to save the world. I need to know we're doing that!"

"It was not you or Claire; you were both alive when it happened! And I spoke with Mohinder Suresh. He had a list. Nobody else has regenerative powers." Peter doesn't say anything, and Hiro sighs. "I am as sure as I can be. But I fear that if Sylar discovers what we have done, he will come here."

"And how would he find that out?" Peter still sounds angry. "Did you tell your friend Ando?"

"No. I kept our mission absolutely secret. _Top _secret. I swear. But Sylar has a way of finding out things. He is a bad man."

They stare at each other for a long while, Hiro's brow furrowed and earnest, Peter still glaring, until a sound like glass breaking ruptures the silence. It's enough to set off alarm bells; Peter is on his feet and Hiro is already halfway to the second bedroom, heart pounding. Electricity is making the hairs on his arms and neck stand up.

"Kensei?" He pushes open the door and flicks the light switch, holding his breath. In seconds his eyes find Kensei's shock of blonde hair in the room and the relief that follows is enough to make him feel weak. It doesn't last long though, because Kensei looks up at his entrance and Hiro realizes that his first instinct was right. Something is very wrong.

"Hiro?" Kensei sounds breathless. He is gasping for air, actually, sitting upright in the single bed, fists clenching the white sheets, shaking so violently the bed frame is creaking.

"_Ken_sei!" Hiro rushes forward and reaches for Kensei's shoulders as if that will somehow steady him. "Are you hurt?"

The blonde shakes his head, another dangerously spasmodic movement, and Hiro realizes belatedly what a stupid question that is. A little calmer now that he remembers physical harm is not possible, he finds the time to sit on the side of the bed and glance around for a likely invisible Peter before he asks, "What is the matter?"

Kensei shakes his head again, and the repeated gesture is suddenly enough for Hiro to understand what has happened. He speaks without thinking.

"We can make you forget."

Too late, Hiro realizes he has no idea how to explain this, but Kensei doesn't seem in any shape to ask for clarification; he shakes his head, eyes bright, and Hiro's heart sinks in his chest. Shame is quick to follow; deep down, he wants Kensei to say yes, _yes_, because then maybe Hiro can forget what he has done as well. But he doesn't.

"No!" The exclamation is forced out through clenched teeth; Kensei is rocking backwards and forwards on the bed, hands balled into fists by his side. "Someone did this to me. They will pay. But I can't make them pay if I can't remember what they've done. I can't –"

"Kensei!" Hiro interrupts, too late.

"Why didn't I die?" Kensei finally meets his eyes. He sits forward, elbows locked against the bed frame, voice going sharp and angry and barely controlled, and finally, Hiro recognizes that Peter is right. Who is this man, sitting beside him? It is not Takezo Kensei, but Hiro uses the name anyway, because the only alternative is _Adam_, and using _that_ is tantamount to giving up. That he will not do.

"I should have died. I did die. I _remember_ dying. Sucking air in until there wasn't anymore, and then gasping, and…" He laughs and it sounds like choking; his expression becomes confused, trying to remember. "Asphyxiation _burns_, Hiro –"

"Please stop, Kensei," Hiro interrupts, heart pounding.

"Dirt everywhere; dirt and…little flecks of wood. Splinters. Earth under my fingers. Earth and splinters." The blankness of his tone gives way to bitterness and fury. "Nothing. For days and weeks and months nothing. _Who did this to me?_"

"Stop it," Hiro begs, and he can no longer keep the sob from his voice. "Kensei, please stop it."

Kensei looks at him with pale eyes. Everything about him is pale, lips white and golden hair uncharacteristically colorless under the bare light bulb, making him look weary and formless. He's still shaking, a fact that Hiro tries and fails to blame on the temperature, and his stare flickers fitfully, clear eyes darting, unable to hold Hiro's gaze.

"Please," Hiro babbles. "Calm down." His hands are not so steady anymore either as he pushes Kensei gently down by the shoulder. "You will be alright. Please, Kensei. Lie back down. You will feel better. Lie back down."

Kensei allows Hiro to pull the covers back over him, unmoving and silent aside from his ragged breathing. Perhaps, Hiro dares think, the situation can still be salvaged. Perhaps the damage is fixable. Peter would know. Peter _will _know. Hiro gets up and Kensei seizes his arm.

"Whoever did this – I swear – they will suffer."

They have, Hiro thinks, once he's recovered from the pain of those familiar words. They _are_. He sits back down and keeps his eyes averted. "I will stay with you until you sleep."

The hand around his wrist squeezes and lets go. Hiro sits and stares at the door, listening to the sounds of Kensei trying to get comfortable. He can feel it every time the blonde shifts, and only when the coverlet is utterly still beneath his fingers does he dare look around. He does not know how much time has passed, but Kensei's eyes are on the ceiling, low-lidded and flickering, and his breathing has finally steadied. Hiro watches mutely as his eyes close completely and the muscles in his face go slack.

He should get up and leave now, quietly. Find Peter, and tell him what has happened. Come up with a story in case Kensei is more cognizant when he next awakens. But he stays where he is and watches the repetitive rise and dip of the sheets in time with Kensei's breathing instead. In, out; rise, fall. It's mesmeric.

"Eventually he'll remember who put him in that box."

Hiro does not glance up. After all, Peter might not even be visible, and his voice feels irritatingly like an intrusion at the moment. He looks instead to his sleeping nemesis; one of Kensei's hands is clutching the coverlet up to his neck, and Hiro finds himself reaching for it without knowing why. The skin feels oddly soft, like a baby's.

"Eventually," Hiro agrees. The minutes pass in silence. The awkward breakfast they shared seems like years ago. He doesn't hear Peter leave, knows, somehow, that he is still standing there, watching, but for some reason, he doesn't mind so much anymore.

He kisses Kensei on the cheek and wordlessly dares Peter to comment.

**A/N: Uh, so, uber-long again. Unhealthy degrees of angst – a smidgeon of happiness in there as well? A cheek-kiss. Vague S&M dialogue, dependant! and when!you!yell!at!me!i!feel!better!Peter… 2 people crying in one day… vengeance-obsessed Kensei/Adam…m'yeah. I'm happy with it. XD**

**A/N 2: 3000 words. **

**A/N 3: Liveforthemoments? You rock.**


	6. Day Five: Peter

A Month of Stolen Time

A Month of Stolen Time

**Warnings:** Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume.  
**Set:** Post 2nd Volume finale.  
**Songlist:** _The Servant_

_The sun goes up and the sun goes down  
I drag myself into the town  
All I do I wanna do with you  
Everyday I'm at my desk  
At my desk I'm like the rest  
All I do I wanna do with you_

_Cells_ – The Servant

Day Five

_Peter_

This morning, Peter doesn't wake up, because Peter hasn't been sleeping. As a matter of fact, he hasn't even noticed one day slip into another, standing in the dark of Adam's room where there are no windows and no clocks. Hiro is sleeping, Peter knows, in his usual spot outside in the living room, and so is Adam, if the rustle of his breathing is any indication. The man sounds so peaceful Peter almost decides against waking him. Almost. Instead he walks over to the bed and looks down at Adam's sleeping face.

Adam looks just like anybody else when he is sleeping. There is nothing unusual about him; he is almost nondescript with those clear eyes closed and that shock of hair muted against the white of the pillow. He looks innocent and unfussed, content in a simple manner that the awake, alert Adam could never be content. No; Adam is ambitious, Adam wants _everything_, Adam could never be happy with anything uncomplicated or familiar or homely. Thinking about it makes Peter feel angry.

"Wake up. Monroe, wake up."

What Adam does cannot be described as _waking_; he _bolts _upright, panting, staring at him wild-eyed.

"Peter! What's wrong?" He reaches out and clutches onto Peter's shirt as a thought occurs to him. "Have they come back? Have they come back to put me down there again?"

For all his earlier talk of vengeance, Adam only looks frightened by the prospect. His eyes are so wide the whites are showing. Peter pries his hand off, trying to be patient, but sleeplessness has made him edgy.

"No," he says, with an attempt at sounding soothing. It falls flat and Peter is irritated with himself. All of his training as a nurse seems goes out the window where Adam is concerned. "No, no one's here. I just want to talk to you."

It takes a good minute or so for Adam's breathing to return to normal, and when it does, he gives Peter a sideways glance, mistrust written blatantly on his face. Peter wonders if the man realizes how honest he's being by displaying his wariness for all to see. It's so contrary to anything the old Adam would have done, and it makes Peter feel slightly guilty.

"What time is it?" Adam asks finally, choosing to begin with the innocuous questions.

"Early in the morning," Peter guesses. "Are you hungry? You haven't eaten in a while again; come out into the kitchen. There's a clock there." Try as he might, the words don't sound anywhere close to caring; they come out sharp and quick and blatant in their attempt to coax Adam from his room. The blonde gives him that _look _again, but he gets up and follows Peter when he beckons him towards the door.

They step into the dark living room together, and Peter holds a lip against his mouth. At first Adam's eyebrows furrow in confusion, but then his gaze falls on the dark shape curled on the couch that is Hiro, and he smiles, padding closer to get a better look. Peter, watching him, feels a jolt that for once, isn't anger, and he pulls Adam away one handed and walks him to the kitchen. With the door shut behind him, he turns on the lights and releases a sigh.

"There. Keep your voice down, unless you want to wake him, but we can talk here."

"Food?" Adam reminds him, and he is being obvious too. Peter, disgruntled, points him to a few drawers and watches him forage through them in silence. Truth be told, he's a little surprised to find Adam holding up this well. After his little breakdown yesterday, he'd expected the blonde to be a wreck…but perhaps other memories have come to light since then that supersede the memory of his hours underground, other, dangerous, traits of personality unfolded. It's this possibility that's been occupying every corner of Peter's mind ever since Adam smashed a glass of water yesterday in his sleep, and this is the reason he is creeping around in the early hours of the morning, trying to get Adam to talk. The odd time he chooses for this discussion pretty much guarantees that Hiro will be kept out of it, which is what Peter wants. For once, he is trying to _avoid_ causing the time traveler pain, because if Adam gives the wrong answer…Peter shakes his head, clearing his thoughts, and reminds himself he doesn't have to keep promises he hasn't made. Whatever understanding they've come to, Peter never pledged not to harm Adam, _never_.

"So. Your memory's starting to come back."

"It would seem so," Adam concedes after a moment between bites of an apple. He wipes the juice from his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture is somehow antithetical to everything Adam is, and Peter feels that jolt of guilt again. What if Hiro is right? Does forgetting a thing exonerate a person of that responsibility? _No_, Peter thinks, angry. _No_.

"What do you remember so far?"

Adam takes another bite of his apple, slowly, and Peter has to look away, though he's not sure why.

"How do I know whether I can trust either of you?"

The question pisses Peter off. "Either of us? You mean _me_, Adam. You already trust _Hiro_."

Adam pauses; bites his lip instead of the apple this time. He seems a little thrown by this accusation. "Yes," he admits after a moment, voice loose and soft with surprise, admitting it as much to himself as to Peter. "I suppose I do. I _remember_ him."

"How much?" Peter asks, and there is no disguising the hungriness of his words.

Adam seems startled. He takes one last bite of the apple and throws it towards the bin, getting it in. Peter always misses when he tries to do that; then again, Adam's had a lot longer to practice.

"How much? I remember that – we were friends. That Hiro…helped me when nobody else would. I remember _him_, the way he fiddles with his glasses all the time and the way he never shuts up." Adam laughs and it sounds eerily genuine. Peter just stares at him and feels angrier and angrier at the pretence. "I _know _him, Peter."

"You're a terrible liar," Peter answers, even though it isn't true. Adam is an _excellent _liar – this is the very problem.

"Well what else is there to remember?" The other man's voice is mild and unthreatening and it makes the hairs on the back of Peter's neck stand up. He quirks a smile. "Perhaps something to explain why I remember waking up in a coffin?"

Peter doesn't say anything, and Adam's eyes get brighter. "I'm not sure it's a commonplace experience, that's all. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the feeling of one's own lungs dying is not something most people live through, hmmm?"

"Shut up," Peter snaps, losing his temper. He knows what Adam is doing – playing for sympathy. How does Hiro not see this? It's not as good a performance as last night, where even Peter believed it, for a second, but the little smile on the corner of Adam's mouth indicates that he's not really trying too hard. "Just _shut up_! You can't manipulate me again; I _know _what you are, okay?"

Adam laughs. "Again? _Again_? Have I done this before, then, Peter?" Hysteria edges its way into his voice, and Peter is faintly impressed by his acting. _Oh, Adam, you're brilliant_. It only makes Peter hate him more.

"You know the answer to that question."

The blonde doesn't respond immediately. The calculating look is back in his eyes, and yet again, the honesty of his face astonishes Peter. _He can't have remembered all of it, then. Has he remembered any of it?_ Instinctively, Peter reaches towards Adam's mind with his own, but it is a mass of thoughts and he cannot pick one from the other. Adam is thinking too fast for him; conning him; always one step ahead.

"I did something, didn't I?"

Compared to his tone earlier, Adam sounds much calmer, only the barest shake in his voice. He leans against the counter and rubs the nape of his neck, avoiding Peter's eyes.

"I can't even _remembe_r it."

It hits a nerve.

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't have to pay for it."

"That's odd," Adam answers, voice as smug as Peter's is cold, "I'd say that it does."

Peter raises an arm and is not even aware of doing it until Adam shouts and slams backwards. He was leaning against the counter, but now he is pinned against it, feet raised a few inches above the ground and climbing steadily higher. For a split second Peter feels horrified with himself – but now the game is up. It is time for both of them to tell the truth; and Peter can't back out now. He takes a deep breath and tries to convince himself that he is in control of this, and not the other way around.

"Whatever I did must have been terrible," Adam gasps. The panic is back in his voice, but he still sounds oddly self-satisfied. Peter wonders if this is normal. Shouldn't he be more surprised by the fact that he is levitating? Is this a clue? Is Peter just overanalyzing it? Why can't he figure Adam out? "I'd apologize, but I don't think that's what you're after, is it? Or would you like an apology, Peter?"

Peter opens his hand and Adam slides down the wall to the floor, landing with a sharp cracking noise. Belatedly, he realizes the blonde must have tried to break his fall with his hands, and – well, they certainly sound broken.

"_Ouch._ Peter, what the hell was that?"

Adam smirks, still crumpled on the floor, and Peter feels sickened by the familiar words. The blonde shifts slightly, moaning in pain, and eventually manages to extricate his hand from under him. Three of the fingers are sticking out at extremely odd angles, and Adam lifts them into the light with painstaking slowness, hissing between his teeth. After a second, though, the noise stops; Adam's tongue darts out to his lips, his gaze meets Peter's briefly, unsure, before he stares back at his extended hand, where his fingers are healing before his eyes, sliding back into their correct alignment seamlessly. For a long moment Adam does not dare move, breathing hard and wide eyed. Eventually, though, he curls his hand into a fist with his eyes scrunched shut and his teeth on his lower lip, expecting pain. When he realizes it is not coming, his expression changes to one of glee, and he takes his time flexing each digit experimentally, delighted, before shooting Peter a look that is somehow triumphant.

"Well this is unexpected," he says in a calm voice, underlain by excitement. "Though I can't say _you _seem very surprised. Something you'd like to share?"

"Nothing," Peter answers. His throat feels very tight and warm, his words emerging from a furnace. "_Nothing_. Do you remember that, Monroe? Days and months of _nothing_?"

Adam stiffens where he is sprawled, lips pressed together tightly, the triumphant look gone from his face. After a moment, though, he takes a deep breath and his mouth eases apart again. Perhaps he has realized that he is in no position to get angry. He tries for innocence and sincerity instead.

"Peter, there's no need for this. All I want are some answers."

Peter almost laughs, and it must show on his face because Adam changes tack. "Did I kill someone?" he asks, in an unbearably casual voice. "Because if so, you are more than welcome to take revenge."

It is like a slap in the face; rage crashes into Peter's chest. Surprisingly enough, it is not Nathan he is thinking of – because Nathan is not dead – but Kaito Nakamura, Hiro's father – Hiro, who Peter has been systematically damaging all month; who Peter is now betraying; who told him to _stop it _just because he knew Peter needed it, despite how confused he was, despite how unwilling.

"I don't think it would stick, though," Adam continues, peaceably. "The evidence certainly suggests otherwise."

Peter's arm comes up again of its own accord, his lips drawn back in a snarl; he has no idea of what he's going to do, only that it will _hurt_ – and then another voice calls out, panicked – almost comically dismayed –

"_Oh, no! Peter Petrelli, stop it!" _

Peter does. He can't _not_. He looks around to where Hiro is standing by the doorway, wide eyed, and sees a flicker of confusion cross his face, the same he saw yesterday at breakfast, like Hiro doesn't understand why Peter is obeying him; like he doesn't have a clue what this _means_. It's frustrating, and Peter doesn't want Hiro leading him blind, but there doesn't seem to be any alternative. He lowers his arm and looks back towards Adam, not troubling to hide his hatred anymore, and feels something like relief.

"Hiro," Adam says in that odd, wounded way of his, and after a pause, a little breathlessly, "Hiro?" Hiro looks at him and doesn't speak. Neither of them moves and Peter begins to feel uncomfortable, and maybe a little jealous. He clears his throat, and Hiro finally meets his gaze again, cheeks a little flushed.

"What did you do, Peter?"

_God_, Peter thinks. _You learn fast_. There is nothing but disappointment in Hiro's voice, and it has just the effect it's meant to. Peter finds that he can't answer; he shakes his head instead and Hiro wavers and hesitates before he says, "Come over here," and doesn't add a please.

"What the hell is going on?" Adam demands as Peter crosses the room. He is on his feet now, standing a little way away, eyes narrowed and arms crossed over his chest. His expression is carefully furious, directed at Hiro, so different from the cultivated venom Adam curled into his taunting of Peter earlier. "I can _heal_ myself – and neither of you thought to _tell _me?"

Hiro's eyes dart between Peter and Adam. He touches his glasses. "We were waiting for you to remember by yourself." He licks his lips. "Your brain is healing itself, too. Your memories will return, gradually."

"I can heal myself," Adam repeats, tone incredulous. He glances at Peter, wide eyed and wary. "And _he_ can…? Telekinesis? Is that even possible?"

"Oh, yes," Peter tells him, softly, half because he doesn't want Hiro to answer for him and reveal all the other things he can do, and half because he wants those eyes on him again. Adam obliges. "It's possible."

Beside him, Hiro shifts uncomfortably. "I can bend time and space," he offers without being asked, and Peter looks at him, exasperated and frustrated that Hiro would volunteer that information without being asked. "It is a great power and with it comes great responsibility. As with yours," Hiro adds, nodding towards Adam, who smiles slightly. It fades from his face when he asks his next question.

"And this is why I was – buried? Because I can…do this?"

"Ordinary people fear those with extraordinary powers," Hiro answers honestly. "They do not always know that we are heroes. Some of us are villains, so I understand why they are confused."

Adam purses his lips. There is a long silence before he asks, voice low, "Does this mean that I can't die?"

"No," Peter answers sharply, and Hiro gives him a look that says _don't_, butPeter keeps talking because he doesn't know what he'll do if Hiro voices it aloud. _Stop it_. Hiro can't possibly guess what those words are beginning to mean. "You're not immortal; don't think that you are. You can't heal death."

"Oh." Adam looks a little disappointed, then he shrugs. "Never matter; I have another question." His eyes find Peter's yet again, briefly, but he asks his question to Hiro. "What did I do? To make him _hate _me so much?"

Hiro hesitates visibly. He turns his head ever so slightly, including Peter in his field of vision, silently quizzical, and Peter thinks at him, _No. Not about Nathan. No, god, please don't. I couldn't bear it. _

"You should ask Peter yourself," Hiro says after a moment, and Peter exhales a shaky breath. "And if he does not tell you…then neither can I."

"I deserve some answers," Adam counters instantly, and Peter can see Hiro turning this over in his mind.

"Yes," he agrees eventually. "You do. But Peter does not want to give them to you, and I will not tell him to. That would not be fair of me." Even as he announces this, he looks at Peter questioningly, as if to ask, _is this right? Am I doing this right? _

"And there's nothing – nothing else?" Adam asks, sounding both suspicious and oddly vulnerable.

"Nothing," Hiro lies, smooth-faced. "You have forgotten a lot, but you are recovering, because you can heal. Before long you will remember everything." Adam nods but doesn't smile; Peter does, mirthlessly. Yes, soon, Adam will remember everything. And then what?

It goes unanswered in his mind, and meanwhile, Adam has run out of questions. Silence falls, thick and awkward. It doesn't bother Peter that much – he thinks he and Adam have said everything that needs saying – but Hiro chews his lip, clearly agitated.

"Ah," he mutters, uncomfortably. "Well. It is still early; if you are still tired – if not – maybe hungry –"

Adam rescues him, perfectly calm. "I think," he says with a pause, "I'll go back to sleep now."

Hiro nods and smiles, relieved and encouraging. Adam pauses at the door and looks back at Peter.

"Good night," he offers tonelessly before slipping out the room, and for some reason Peter shivers and looks at Hiro for guidance. He is feeling disoriented and frightened again, and it must show in his expression because the time traveler frowns and puts a hand on his shoulder briefly. Peter thinks of Nathan but doesn't speak.

"So, how about breakfast?" Hiro says after a moment, smiling bravely as if nothing has happened. "And maybe coffee too; you look very tired." He's trying, and Peter should try as well, so he nods and smiles back and goes to the cupboard in search of plates. Hiro, behind him, hesitates and hovers anxiously, uncomfortable.

"Go sit down already, would you?" Peter says eventually. "I'll do it myself; you're just making me feel nervous."

"I –" Hiro falters. "Yes – if that's what – you want."

_Something to do with my hands_, Peter thinks. _Someone to tell me to do it. _He meets Hiro's eyes unblinkingly. "Yes. That's what I want."

Hiro nods to show he understands, and smiles, a little sadly.

**A/N: This is so bizarre. I wanted**__**to write Hiro/Kensei & Adam/Peter way before Hiro/Peter but somehow Hiro/Peter is coming first. Hmm. **

**A/N 2: As usual, my one reviewer is love.**


	7. Day Five: Hiro

A Month of Stolen Time

**Warnings:** Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume.  
**Set:** Post 2nd Volume finale.  
**Songlist:**

_Well I'm pushing myself to finish this part__  
I can handle a lot –  
__But the one thing I miss is  
In your eyes_

_Eyes _– Rogue Wave

Day Five_  
Hiro_

After breakfast Peter seems to be in an oddly good mood. He's not happy, exactly – Hiro suspects that emotion will be a long time coming – but he smiles at all the right moments and doesn't once give Hiro that look of panic that is already becoming frighteningly familiar. It's a good sign, but Hiro can't help but worry about the source, and by that he doesn't mean the cooking, either. He's fairly sure that being ordered about does not usually improve one's mood, and yet, that seems to be exactly what it's doing for Peter.

"Hey, I was thinking I might go shopping."

_Shopping? _Hiro thinks, incredulously. Peter blinks back across from him, elbows on the table, fiddling with his cutlery, not nervous but over-energetic, wired. Looking at him, Hiro almost says the words _retail therapy _in reflexbut just manages to hold them back. He's not sure, but he has an inkling it's not the right thing to say, some spare piece of knowledge retained from one of Charlie's English lessons.

"That would probably be a good idea," he says instead, trying to sound calm. Peter's jumpiness is making him feel jumpy as well. "Kensei will need clothes…clothes other than…"

"Right," Peter agrees, cutting him off, expression a little wild. "Right; of course; I'll, I'll go out and get some –"

"Only if you want –" Hiro begins automatically, and then remembers their tacit agreement and stops. Peter's already half risen from his chair, but at Hiro's words he pauses and places both hands on the tabletop for balance. His voice is pained, and he raises his head slightly, not meeting Hiro's eyes but deliberately exposing his face, showing Hiro his expression.

"I _do_ want," he says finally, in a tone that is part controlled frustration and part a conscious attempt at calm. "You _know _I want."

"Yes – I –" Hiro swallows and ducks his head to hide the fact that he is blushing again. "Yes," he repeats, in a clearer voice. "Could you – would you mind –" Peter still isn't looking at him, and he doesn't say anything either, but the heavy-lidded expression on his face speaks louder than words. Hiro takes another deep breath and corrects himself. "_Clear _up before you leave. I – want to see Kensei."

"Okay," Peter answers evenly after a short but painful pause. He straightens up and Hiro hazards a glance: he's smiling.

Clearing the table doesn't take Peter long, but the few minutes are more than enough for Hiro, who can't seem to look up from the tablecloth the entire time. True to his word, once the dishes and pan are piled into the sink, the empath shrugs his coat on, hesitates, and leaves. Alone at the table, Hiro looks at the clock. It is only ten o'clock, but he feels tired and more than a little nervous about confronting Kensei again. What if he has seen through Hiro's lies? What if he has remembered something else? But this isn't what Hiro's really afraid of: ever since yesterday, he's been unable to get the image of Kensei shuddering and shaking, tucked under white sheets, out of his head.

Still, he gets up and marches determinedly towards Kensei's room, as if this can somehow banish his doubts. It doesn't. Outside the door, Hiro finds himself freezing, unable to go forward or back. He doesn't know if he could bear finding that same Kensei as yesterday – the frightened, lost, _vengeful _one – and the fear is enough to keep him rooted in place. After a moment of agonized indecision, though, Hiro finds himself thinking of the long look they exchanged earlier, of the familiar way Kensei says his name, half reverential half…wounded, as though – and the wideness of his eyes. It is somehow enough to counteract the other image plaguing his mind and before he can think twice, Hiro brushes his knuckles against the door in a soft knock. There is silence, and then the coolness of Kensei's voice, soft with amusement and muted through the wood.

"Come in."

Hiro does. Kensei is standing by the window, hand flat against the window pane, and he doesn't look around as Hiro shuffles in.

"I didn't exactly get back to sleep," the blonde mutters softly to the glass, explanatorily. "As you can see."

Hiro comes closer. "How are you feeling, Kensei?" He doesn't know why he asks the question, since he already knows the answer. Somehow, it is breathtakingly easy to read the fact that Kensei won't look at him.

"Not well," Kensei answers, voice suddenly brittle with impatience, and he turns around with a dangerous swaying motion. Hiro's eyes instantly search his face: the skin above Kensei's cheekbones seems darker than usual, and his lips are parted slightly, jaw loose with exhaustion rather than tranquility. "I don't – feel well – at _all_."

"Sit down," Hiro recommends hurriedly, seizing Kensei by the wrist and pulling.

"I don't want to _sit down_," Kensei answers irritably, resisting. Hiro gives up and reaches for his forehead instead, to take his temperature, and this Kensei lets him do, speaking all the while. "I want to _get up_, I want to _wash_, I want to see something other than these _four walls_. I've spent _enough_ time in a coffin, thank you."

Kensei's forehead is hot to the touch, but it doesn't worry Hiro half as much as this last comment. "Kensei, you have a fever. You are burning up. You should lie down –"

"I don't want to," the blonde answers stubbornly. "I'm going to go wash." He shakes Hiro off and takes a determined step towards the door, which he ends up leaning his head against instead of going through. "I…might need your help, though."

"Help," Hiro repeats blankly, and Kensei throws him a look that is part embarrassment and part irritation. "_Oh_," he realizes. "Oh, okay."

_Okay _can definitely not qualify what this is, but Hiro tells himself to calm down and stop being childish. He doesn't know why, but the idea of _helping _Kensei wash makes him feel like he did when 17-year-old Keiko announced her parents were out and offered to take him upstairs and kiss him. He thinks he responded in exactly the same way, too; _oh_, okay…

As awkward as Hiro feels, the slight shame on Kensei's face makes _him _feel ashamed. He's not sure if it's Adam, hating having to ask for help, or Adam, displaying some apparently ingrained modern ideas about the body, but he knows that modesty does _not _belong to Kensei. For some reason, though, this doesn't make him feel as sad as it usually does. Maybe it _is _okay, after all. He tries this theory out, silently letting Kensei lean on him to the bathroom, helping with a few buttons before turning away, and then Kensei clambers into the bath and all Hiro has to do is get on his knees and fiddle with taps and look straight ahead or at Kensei's face, but nowhere in between.

"There," he announces when the bathtub is full, very relieved and looking Kensei rather fixedly in the eye. "I will bring you some clothes to change –"

Kensei doesn't let him finish, grabbing his arm and jerking him forward. Suddenly, Hiro's up to his elbows in soapy water, fingers scrabbling on the curved inside of the bathtub and meeting the soft warmth of a submerged limb. Automatically, he jumps and tries to scurry backwards on his knees, but Kensei hasn't let go of his arm, and if anything, he only pulls Hiro closer.

"I think you should stay here," he says languorously, looking blatantly amused by the panic Hiro must be displaying. "What if I should…faint, and drown? Wouldn't that be tragic?"

"I think you are feeling stronger," Hiro responds, still trying to pull away. "I…think…that you recovered _very _quickly from that fever." The cuffs of his shirt are soaked and floating in the tub and his fingers are getting disturbingly well-acquainted with the soft velvet of what must be Kensei's upper thigh or hip. Kensei smiles at him by way of answer, and suddenly his hand moves from gripping Hiro's arm to gripping the collar of Hiro's shirt. He yanks forward and Hiro nearly overbalances into the tub, but a moment later he doesn't care, because Kensei's lips are on his.

It's a moist kiss, warm and heady and maybe a little breathless due to the steam rising from the bathwater. After a long, lovely moment, Kensei's fingers release his shirt and Hiro sits back a little, coughing. The blonde frowns at him.

"That's not the reaction I was expecting," he admits wryly, but in truth he doesn't seem terribly displeased. His smile _does _vanish when Hiro reaches up to readjust glasses, though, and Hiro lets out a little shriek as Kensei reaches forward and snatches them off his nose. The world suddenly becomes very soft around the edges, and since Hiro can't judge perspectives terribly well anymore, he can hardly be to blame when he doesn't back away from Kensei's second kiss.

"Where are my glasses?" Hiro wails as soon as he can, and he hears rather than sees Kensei's smirk as he answers, "Don't worry, Hiro. They're on the side of the sink for safekeeping. You won't be needing them now."

"But I do need them," Hiro protests. He is beginning to feel irritated, mainly because he is ridiculously short-sighted, but also because he does not appreciate Kensei toying with him like this. "I need them to _see_! And this is not funny, Kensei! It isn't fair of you to play a trick on me…are you even sick?"

"…no," Kensei's voice admits from the blurriness, not sounding the least bit apologetic. "But I have good news I want to share with you, and I didn't know how else to get you alone."

"You could have _asked_!" Hiro reprimands. Beneath the water, fingers curl around his own. "Well? What is it?"

Because he can't see properly, Hiro leaps about a foot in the air when he feels a hand on the back of his neck. Kensei makes shushing noises and the hand moves, letting water trickle down the back of his neck as it strokes the skin there. Hiro doesn't find himself minding too much; if anything, the caress is comforting rather than alarming, and the part of Hiro that is getting very anxious mellows, his shoulders drooping, even lifting a finger occasionally to slide it against one of Kensei's within the water.

"I've remembered something and I thought this would be the perfect way to celebrate."

"Mmm?" It's about all Hiro can manage at the moment. He feels strangely contented, lethargic, comforted and happy as a cat curled in front of a fire. He can be the cat; Kensei can be the fire. It's what's most fitting. "What did you remember?"

"_Carp_," Kensei answers, and Hiro closes his eyes with a long sigh. He can't see anyway, and the contented feeling just got better, somehow. "I remember Japan, Hiro. Not all of it, but some of it. The important parts." He pauses. "You really _do_ look like a fish when you talk."

"Do you remember Yaeko?" Hiro asks, extremely reluctantly, his happiness ebbing in anticipation of the response.

"Yaeko? No, who's Yaeko?" Kensei does not wait for an answer, obviously far more interested in pressing his lips to Hiro's yet again. "It doesn't matter. I'll remember soon enough." He really does sound bored by the topic, and Hiro isn't at all inclined to push him. The contented feeling has returned with a vengeance; it's sort of like the sensation of stretching, but better, and longer.

"Are you confused?" he asks instead, wondering what he'll do if Kensei says yes. "About how it is possible for you to be here now? So long after?"

Kensei blinks damp eyes at him. "Of course not," he answers softly, and something other than affection creeps into his voice. It makes Hiro want to readjust his glasses, but they are gone and his hands are otherwise occupied, one serving to prop him against the tub, the other soapy and wet, still stroking the palm of Kensei's hand underneath the water. "You can time travel."

"Oh," Hiro says. "Oh, yes, I can."

"You brought me with you…" Kensei continues, without a hint of question in his voice, but Hiro's happiness fades slightly all the same and he opens his eyes again.

"Yes," he confirms vaguely, distracted. Kensei's hand has long since left the back of his neck, and is trailing down his spine, leaving wet handprints on his shirt. Hiro is suddenly reminded of Peter, and, more accurately, how much he doesn't want Peter to know about any of this. He's not sure, but he thinks the handprints might be a little bit of a give away. He pulls back.

"Hiro?" Kensei says in that wide-eyed, hurt way of his, and Hiro fumbles around for his glasses. He slips them on to see Kensei looking faintly disappointed. The blonde sighs and sits back in the water, thumbing his lip.

"You're thinking about Peter," he accuses after a moment, and when Hiro opens his mouth to protest he continues, a little gentler, "Or rather, what he'd think…_I_ thought times had changed…but I _do _remember Japan…if _that_ is what you're worried about."

"No," Hiro answers, and then he can't stop. "No, but – no, I can't do this. I'm sorry."

The disappointed expression on Kensei's face flickers, and Hiro thinks he can glimpse a glimmer of annoyance underneath. Then the blonde goes limp, shoulders slumping, body sliding into the water. In seconds he is completely submerged, blonde hair snakelike, floating, sometimes-blue eyes closed and brow unlined. Hiro stares and blinks and panics for one entire minute before half falling forwards and yanking Kensei up by his neck.

"Kensei! Kensei, are you alright?"

There's a long silence; Kensei doesn't move a muscle and Hiro props him sideways against the tub, tapping the side of his cheeks with increasing vigor. _God_, Hiro thinks. _God. He _said_ he was sick. Why didn't I listen? What if he can't remember how to heal himself? _But before he has time to _really_ start panicking, a sleepy drawl breaks through his thoughts.

"You know, if you kissed me, I might wake."

"You _are_ awake," Hiro yells at him. There is a little smile in the corner of Kensei's mouth. "That was unfair!" The blonde opens his eyes and Hiro pauses, mid-rant. He moves closer, to get a better look: Kensei's eyes are definitely not blue right now, if anything, they look more red.

"You _are _sick."

"I _did _tell you," Kensei admonishes peevishly, closing his eyes again. "Does healing tire me?"

"No," Hiro answers. "I don't think so. I don't know. Do you feel alright? Can you get dressed?"

Kensei seems to consider it. "Probably not," he admits after a moment. "My head feels strange."

Hiro blinks at him and Kensei blinks back, head lolling slightly against the tiled wall. "Okay," he begins again, bravely. "I can help. _O_kay." He reaches forward for Kensei's arm and lifts it easily; the blonde is loose-limbed and limp as Hiro pulls him up by the elbows. It's not too hard, so Kensei must be contributing to some extent, but Hiro feels just as strange doing this as he does ordering Peter around. He still can't get used to the idea that anyone would willingly place someone else in a position of power over them – Kensei least of all. The thought makes him freeze, and Hiro lifts his head to find quizzical eyes on his.

"I am going to get clothes now, Kensei," he babbles, defensively. "Please try to stay upright while I am gone."

Kensei smiles, but Hiro doesn't know what he's said that's so funny. He's _serious._ The blonde sways where he's standing, dripping water, and Hiro hurriedly hands him a towel.

"And keep – keep holding that," he orders, a little shakily, and a shadow of a smile creeps into the corner of Kensei's mouth. He really must beill, because even though his expression is unmistakably amused, he hasn't commented on the obvious blush highlighting Hiro's cheeks. It's a mercy, but a part of Hiro can't help but feel disappointed. A part of him likes the blonde teasing him. A_ lot_.

Kensei's voice stops him with his hand on the doorknob.

"Did I do it?" he asks in a tone that can only be described as delirious.

"Do what?" Hiro does not turn around.

"In Japan. You wanted me to be a hero. Did you succeed? Did I succeed?"

For a moment, Hiro genuinely wonders. "Yes," he says eventually, unsure if he is lying or telling the truth. "Yes, we succeeded."

"Good," Kensei babbles peaceably behind him, "good."

Hiro flees before he can ask anymore.

**A/N: Whagr!**** Here's your Hiro/Kensei, you insatiable wenches. (I jest. I am just sleepy at the moment and making no sense. Thank you for the reviews, is what I mean to say. Liveforthemoments in particular for saying the Hiro/Peter is "****weird and potentially very dangerous". I could not have described it better myself and I'm very glad you picked up on that. Thanks as always!)**


	8. Day Six: Peter

A Month of Stolen Time

**Warnings:** Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume.  
**Set:** Post 2nd Volume finale.  
**Songlist:** _Stabilo_ (I am in total love with this band since _Don't Be So Cold_)

_But we're giving it all anyway  
Though it may be a mistake  
We're swimming between the waves of  
Happiness and disaster_

_Happiness & Disaster _- Stabilo

Day Six

_Peter_

Peter wakes up to the feeling that he hasn't been asleep at all.

There's a coolness in the air that suggests, however, that it's morning, so he sits up slowly to get a look at the living room clock anyway, just in case. The short hand has moved quite substantially since Peter last remembers glancing at it; he is surprised to discover he has been sleeping, or at the very least dozing, for almost four uninterrupted hours. He almost feels _fresh _as he uncurls completely from his sleeping position and drags himself off the sofa.

He finds Hiro at the table in the dining room with blue ink all over his bottom link.

"Good morning!" The time traveller announces as Peter walks in, removing the end of a ballpoint pen from his mouth in order to speak. Peter's throws him a look that is openly quizzical, and Hiro obliges and explains. "I am writing a letter to Ando." He smiles down at the paper on the table. "You should write a letter too," he suggests after a moment, brightly, and Peter shrugs uncomfortably.

"I don't know who I'd write to," he says, because he doesn't want to admit to Hiro that he's already tried, and that his handwriting had been illegible, letters spiky on the page. "I'm going to take a shower," he tells him instead, and Hiro nods and hums and dots an _i _with obvious pleasure.

Under the hard spray of water, Peter is finally able to release the breath he's been holding in since he got up. He leans against the tiles and closes his eyes. He feels – alright. Tired, and disconnected, and not a little wan, but alright. He thinks it's the first time he's felt alright in months, and that scares him more than he cares to admit, because for all he knows it'll be fleeting. The possibility is distinctly unpleasant; Peter towels off with unnecessary vigor, gets dressed, and traipses determinedly back to the kitchen to make coffee.

By the time he's gotten the coffee maker to work, Hiro seems to have finished three long pages of his letter and is beginning on a forth. His expression is less jubilant than earlier; it seems he is having trouble expressing himself, and more than half of his pen is stuck inside his mouth to help him concentrate. He's an oddly endearing sight, and Peter can't help but stare and wonder if the blue will ever come out, or if Hiro's lip will be like that permanently.

"Hey, do you want your morning coffee or what?"

Peter slides a mug over the table and Hiro looks up with a relieved expression. He discards both pen and letter, grabbing the mug with both hands and warming his fingers on it gratefully.

"Thank you," he says, emphatically. "Ando is difficult to write to. He…he is the kind who asks questions when he does not necessarily want to know the answers. It is hard to sort out, sometimes."

"Why don't you just – you know, teleport over to wherever he is and have a proper conversation?" By way of response, Hiro glances towards the darkened hallway and Peter adds, "If you're worried about Adam – couldn't you just freeze time?"

Hiro smiles and sips. "I could. But talking to someone who is frozen is not much good, Peter Petrelli."

"Oh," Peter says, feeling a little stupid. He takes a sip of his own drink and rubs his eyes. "I could handle Adam by myself for a little while, you know. Chances are he wouldn't even wake up; all he does is sleep these days –"

"It's not Kensei I am worried about," Hiro interrupts, voice almost sharp. "Well," he admits after a moment, "it _is _Kensei I am worried about." Peter blinks at him, taken aback, and Hiro sighs and softens. "I will be honest. I do not trust you around him, Peter. You are too angry with him."

Peter sets down his mug, hands a little numb. He knows his eyes are wide with hurt, and hates himself for it, but he can't help being open around Hiro. It really isn't fair, he thinks, that Hiro gets to mistrust him when Peter is far too dependant to return the favour. If he _doesn't_ trust Hiro…well, he's been down that road, and he knows by now that he needs _some_one – someone to make him feel guilty, to make him feel grounded – someone to owe _loyalty_ to. Getting Hiro to understand any of this is laughable, however, so instead Peter is left to protest, woodenly, "I can control my temper!"

Hiro shakes his head, disbelievingly. "What would you have done, then, yesterday, if I had not walked in?"

"Nothing," Peter lies, voice going from cold to hot very quickly.

"_Peter_," Hiro says, tone exasperated, and Peter is forced to meet his eyes. "_Tell _me."

So Peter does. "I don't know."

Hiro stares at him. He seems taken aback by this response, almost winded by it.

"Peter – " he begins again, sounding worried now rather than authoritative, but Peter doesn't let him finish. It has just occurred to him that Hiro must think he is lying – metaphorically violating all the terms of their unspoken contract – and the fact that Hiro's first response to this is _concern_ and not relief makes him feel flooded with warmth. He grabs at Hiro's hand where it is lying on the tabletop.

"Hiro. I _don't know_."

"Oh," Hiro says, and reddens. His hand twitches in Peter's, and he tries to duck his chin to hide his cheeks, but their proximity does not let him hide terribly effectively. They hang like that for a long moment until Hiro raises his head again, so pink now he looks like he's glowing. And that's when the doorbell rings.

"Oh!" Hiro exclaims, startled, hand leaping away from Peter's. "Can you – get that?" Peter's not sure if it's one or two sentences, but he obliges anyway, pushing back his seat and going to the front door.

He reaches for the doorknob and hesitates.

"Who's there?"

"I'm the mailman," comes a thin, reedy voice. "I – I have a package for you to sign for, Mr. Petrelli."

Peter opens the door. Blue eyes meet his; a plump, nervous looking man in a ridiculous beige uniform is holding a package in his arms, against his chest. Beside him stands –

Sylar.

Peter does not think, he reacts, flickering out of sight as the package goes tumbling from the arms of the hapless delivery man. The latter cries out and falls forward, suddenly dead and pooling blood over the threshold, and Peter flings out his hand automatically and repels to stop himself flying backwards. Sylar stands in the doorway with a sick, psychopathic grin and a bloodied hand outstretched.

"_Peter_," he taunts, stepping forwards. "Come out; come out; wherever you are! Do you remember what happened the last time we played this game?"

Even though Peter's instinct is to strike out, he forces himself not to, instead closing his eyes and concentrating on flying. He doesn't want to risk Sylar hearing him creep back to the living room, and thankfully, the alternative seems to work. He manages to hover his way back to the living room, silent and undetected, to find that Hiro has half risen from his chair, and is looking towards the hallway anxiously. Peter steals behind him, descending to a soft patter of footsteps of floorboards, and slips a hand over the time traveller's mouth.

_It's me_, he thinks, fiercely as Hiro struggles against him. _Hiro, it's me. Sylar's here. Don't make a sound. I'm letting you go now._

Peter waits for Hiro to relax before lifting his hand. Distantly, he can hear Sylar's voice, calling, sing-song, "Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater! What's the matter? You used to like playing…you put up such a fight the last time…" – but all he can hear is the thought in the forefront of Hiro's mind. _Kensei._

_No_, he thinks. _No, we haven't got time_.

_I will not leave him behind! _Hiro thinks back, desperately. _I will get him, but I need you to distract Sylar. _

_No_, Peter protests. _No! Hiro – _but he doesn't get to finish the thought, because he is interrupted by a throaty laugh.

"Ah," Sylar says, softly, standing frozen at the mouth of the hallway. "Here you are."

Without warning, the dining table is suddenly propelled backwards to smash against the opposite wall. Hiro manages to evade it with an ungainly scramble, but the movement separates him from Peter. He blinks into existence, on all fours near Sylar's feet, and Sylar freezes for a moment, surprised. It's all the time Hiro needs to blink out of existence again, and Sylar swipes the air angrily, throwing the chairs out of the way as well before he calms down enough to resume his taunting.

"I can deal with him later," he mutters, voice silky again. "In the meantime, though, I've got _you_, Peter. Why are you still here? You like playing the hero, don't you? Going to try and…take me on?" Amusement laces his words. "Well, get on with it then; I'm getting a little – _bored_."

To emphasize the last word, Sylar makes another casual sweep with his hand and Peter automatically ducks, hitting the floor with a painfully audible thump. Audible enough that Sylar's head whips around in his direction.

"_There _you are," he coos again, dangerously. "Stop _hiding_."

He lifts his hand and Peter is thrown backwards, pinned against the wall by a heavy, immovable force. It's all too familiar. He closes his eyes and lets himself lie limp, suspended, concentrating all his energy instead on teleporting, but just when he thinks he's gotten it, pain ignites in his side. Peter glances down, scrabbling against the air, to see a kitchen knife embedded just above his waist, and gasps, more in shock than pain. _Away, away, away from here_, he tries, desperately, but the blade pushes harder against him, cutting deeper, and he can't think for pain.

It's at this point that Peter realizes he's not invisible anymore; that he hasn't been, in fact, for quite some time. And it's at this point that he feels the first tendrils of fear.

"I've learnt a thing or two since we last met, Peter," Sylar monologues cheerfully, unaware, walking closer to him. He reaches forward and gestures; obediently, the knife slips out and it's almost as excruciating as it slipping in. "For example; pain is distracting. Pain keeps people from their little tricks."

Determined to disprove him, Peter manages to send out a bolt of electricity, but it is woefully aimed and Sylar dodges it easily, chucking. The knife sinks in again, casually making a new wound whilst the other one heals over, and Sylar smiles as Peter shudders and finally screams.

And then Hiro steps into the room, Adam's hand curled around his wrist.

"_Peter_ _Petrelli!"_

_Dammit, Hiro_, Peter feels like yelling. _Get the hell out of here! _ But since he knows it's useless to try to get Hiro to stop trying to save everyone – himself, _Adam_, probably even _Sylar_ if he gets the chance – he holds his tongue. He doesn't think he'd be able to get the words out anyway.

Sylar, however, is predictably delighted by the interruption.

"The more the merrier!" he exclaims, turning to face the time-traveller. With his attention diverted, the force pinning Peter to the wall eases up and Peter drops to the floor with a gasp, the knife clattering down beside him. He grabs it without thinking and struggles onto his knees, glancing up to see Hiro's eyes on his, wide with panic.

_Go! _Peter thinks at him, furiously. _Go right now – before he hurts you! I'll meet you – somewhere we both know_ _– I'll meet you under the Eiffel tower! But go! _Stubbornness and refusal registers briefly on Hiro's face, and Peter doesn't have to read his mind to know his response. So he grits his teeth against the slow ache of healing and thinks the only thing that will get Hiro to leave. _Please! If he gets Adam, it's all for nothing. I can save myself, but _you _need to save the world. Now!_

"_No_," Hiro says suddenly, aloud, shrilly. Sylar stops his slow advance, a little taken aback, and Hiro glances at him nervously and then back at Peter. "No; I am not leaving. Nobody is leaving. Except you, Sylar. You are leaving, or you are dying."

Sylar laughs. "Alright," he says, affably. "I'll leave – just let me have a look at your friend before I go. Mr. Monroe, isn't it?"

"Leave him alone!" Hiro exclaims, but Adam's eyes are on Sylar's. Peter glances at him and realizes the blonde is concealing his emotions very well. He does not look ostensibly frightened, only guarded, as he meets Sylar's stare unblinkingly, but Peter is looking from a different angle and he can see Adam's hand clenched into a fist behind his back, nails digging hard into skin.

"That's right," Adam Monroe answers, warily. He opens his mouth to continue but suddenly stops, throat moving in a dry swallow. The thought occurs to the three of them at the same time, if Hiro's pallor is anything to go by. "You…you're the one did this to me. _You _buried me."

"_I _buried you?" Sylar repeats, incredulously. "You think _I _did that to you?" His eyes pause on Hiro's stricken expression and he grins, seeing an opportunity. "No, Adam, I didn't do that. Hiro Nakamura did."

Too late, Peter remembers the knife fitted into his grasp. He lifts and throws it in one swift movement, sparks leaving his palm with the blade. Sylar screams and staggers sideways and the floorboards explode into splinters.

"_Now_!" Hiro yells, and from his position on the floor, Peter sees him grab onto Adam's shirt with one hand and scrunch his face up with concentration. He closes his eyes and tries to do the same, but focus still seems very far away and he can't quite get it to work. _Paris Paris Paris, _he chants inside his head, increasingly desperate. _Paris Paris Paris _– and finally it comes, sluggish and slow, almost sickening. He can taste dust in the back of his throat and his head hurts from squeezing his eyes shut, but when he finally dares opens them all he can see the night sky.

He is lying on his back on the sidewalk in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. And he can't move for relief.

**A/N: Two things – firstly, this was not in my initial plan at all. Damn you, Sylar, for insinuating your way into the story! This poses **_**insane**_** problems for my characters. I have no idea how they're going to fix this. I guess I'll just have to see what comes. My guesses are Adam's going to be **_**pretty fucking pissed**_**. I also think there is going to be Sex. There is always Sex as a result of problems like these. ) Secondly, I rewrote this like, 12 times, because I fail at writing action scenes. So, um, knowing if they were decent? Would be awesome. I really need me some feedback. Thank you. That is all. **

**A/N 2: 2,400 words.**

**A/N 3: You guys are awesome! Just wanted to add that too. Thank you.**


	9. Day Six: Hiro

A Month of Stolen Time

**Warnings:** Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume.  
**Set:** Post 2nd Volume finale.  
**Songlist:** _Stabilo_ (I am in total love with this band since _Don't Be So Cold_)

So we're here  
Sound the alarms  
Throw up your arms  
We've brought the entire army and we're starving__

Don't Look in Their Eyes - Stabilo

Day Six_  
Hiro_

Hiro does not get the chance to open his eyes before he finds himself toppling forward, chin hitting what feels like gravel at a painful angle and making him bite his tongue. He rolls over onto his back, slightly dazed and tasting blood, and stares upwards. He can see the night sky, blinking with stars, and a small, metallic shaped _v_ obscuring a portion of it. It takes a moment to register.

"We made it!" he cries out giddily when he realizes what he is looking at. "Kensei, _yatta_!"

The silence that follows is unnerving from a man who delights in teasing him. After a moment, a sick feeling pools in Hiro's stomach and he sits up on his elbows. The concrete feels cold and slightly damp against his fingers. Kensei is standing at his feet, looking down at him, expression carefully incensed.

"_You_," he says, in a deceptively calm, soft voice. "_You_. I never thought…that it could have been you. Because I _trusted_ you."

He sounds betrayed, self-deprecating, and what is worse, unflinchingly _sure_. Hiro scrambles to his feet with his heart in his throat. Coldness is beginning to register, and he sticks his fingers in the pockets of his coat and sticks his chin out.

"No! No— that is a _lie_! Sylar lied!"

The protest comes to his lips with the ease of practice, but Kensei doesn't even seem to hear him. He doesn't even react to Hiro's movement; doesn't move to seize him or hit him, though he must know the time-traveller can be gone in a flash. Hiro is not sure what that means.

"You told me that I was Takezo Kensei; that Takezo Kensei was a hero," Kensei says suddenly, voice flat. "Peter told me I was Adam Monroe, and a bloodthirsty murderer at that." His eyes meet Hiro's and then slip past his shoulder. "Could I be both? For I feel more like an _Adam _today."

"Kensei—" Hiro says, but he knows somehow, that it is too late. "Please," he says eventually, soft. "Please."

The blonde meets his eyes, and the harshness of his expression gently eases away. He swallows and flicks his tongue over his lower lip.

"Who is Sylar?" he asks in a tone that is still expressionless but somehow less flat than before. "How did he find us? Why was he trying to kill us?"

Hiro takes a deep breath, feeling almost dizzy with relief. There is a little stone fountain standing a little way away, brimming with water and leaves from the trees above, and Hiro walks over it, his fingers curling around the marble rim shakily.

"Sylar can steal powers. He cuts open a person's head and…and…and steals their power."

There is a short silence. "I see," Kensei says behind him, voice cold, and Hiro realizes he thinks he's being lied to again.

"It's true!" he blurts out earnestly, not daring to look around, addressing the water. "Sylar killed the painter Isaac Mendez. Mr Isaac could paint the future! He wrote a comic book with me and my friend Ando in it."

"Of course he did," Kensei says, tone warmer and closer, and Hiro jumps as he feels fingers on the nape of his neck. After a moment, though, the fingers trace a line down his neck in a familiar motion and Hiro releases a shuddering breath. It is going to be alright. What they have shared is…enough. It is going to be alright.

"Kensei," he sighs shakily, and he lets the arms encircle him from behind. Kensei's lips brush the back of his neck, and Hiro turns his head to the side and murmurs, exhaustedly, "I thought I had lost you again."

The fingers on his neck stop, and Hiro curls his head back searchingly. Then Kensei makes a sound that Hiro can't quite identify but that he remembers, from a long, long time ago, and his heart goes still in his chest.

"No, Hiro," Kensei's voice answers slowly from behind him. "You will never be rid of me."

Suddenly—water. Hiro scrunches his eyes shut automatically, clamps his mouth shut, and tries to move his arms before realizing that Kensei is still holding him. It is somehow less comforting now. He jerks his head back sharply only to have it thrown forward again, eyes flying open this time to stare at the stones lining the bottom of the fountain. He can feel his hands, impossibly still connected to his body, dry and warm pressed against the small of his back by Kensei's own. Hiro finally makes a small sound of protest between his clenched lips, _humming_ his call for help uselessly into the water. It is only when he feels Kensei's thumb stroke a line down his palm that horror fills him and he opens his mouth to scream.

Water rushes in and forces the sound back down his throat before hastening after it.

"Did you really think…" Kensei says in that oddly lethargic way of his, drowning out the undignified choking sounds Hiro is making with the smooth blanket of his voice, "…that I would believe you?"

Hiro lashes out and something must connect because, above him, Kensei hisses like an angry cat. The sound drifts down to Hiro through a sea of static: _hs, hs, hs_, all broken up and sibilant like a fire being quenched. _Peter was right_, Hiro finds himself thinking as his dizziness creeps into his mind, _all along. Kensei—Adam—cannot change. He is going to hold me down here until I breathe in more water and die. And he will not hesitate._

But even as he thinks this, even as he feels the energy seep from his limbs, he also feels his body being tugged backwards. The next breath he takes is half water and half air, and then he is on the ground again, choking up water. Gravity is working against him so he rolls over onto his side and then it is much easier: he retches until he feels completely empty. It doesn't make his lungs ache any less, but at least his windpipe no longer feels sodden and submerged. He lies there for another long moment feeling sick and relieved and deeply horrified before noise reaches his ears. It is like a radio suddenly being turned up; Hiro hasn't noticed the absence of sound until it returns, almost painfully loud.

"What the _hell_ was that?! What the _hell _do you think you're doing?!"

_Peter_. Hiro can't quite get the word past the burning in his throat yet, but it occurs to him after a moment that it doesn't matter. He thinks it fiercely instead, infused with gratitude, a sigh in his mind. _Peter_.

_Don't move_. The thought is so clear it is disconcerting, as though Peter is standing right next to him, whispering in his ear. Hiro clings onto it and the dizziness abates slightly. _I'll take care of it_.

"He buried me alive, Peter," comes Kensei's voice, appealing and innocent, miles above him. "However much you hate me—_whatever_ I have done—_he_ _buried me alive_."

"Shut up," answers Peter, sounding like he always does when he's angry. "I should have killed you—I should have killed you the moment you shot Victoria and I first suspected the kind of person…"

There is a long silence aside from Hiro's breathing. And then Kensei's voice fills the quiet.

"Well. It was worth trying."

The sound of battle is something Hiro is fairly familiar with by now, but he still can't help but feel worried as it goes on above him. Gasps of pain, hisses, angry shouts—the problem is Hiro can't tell which sounds belongs to whom, and he is entirely too protective of Peter these days to be okay with that. It is enough of an incentive for him to make it onto his knees and raise his head, locking his elbows against the gravel for balance.

What he sees almost makes him throw up again.

"No! Please don't! No—don't!" He says the only thing he can think of. "_Stop it_!"

Peter does, but he also turns to look at him with cold eyes. Adam is suspended in midair mere centimetres away from him, a tear in the sleeve of his shirt and an alarming amount of redness soaking the material. There is no visible wound. "It doesn't work like that, Hiro."

It is like a punch in the stomach. Hiro feels winded, horrified by his mistake. "No," he answers, throat tight with more than burning, eyes glancing back to Adam unintentionally, "No, I know, I'm sorry. I didn't—I did not mean it to mean that. I meant it to mean—"

"I know what you meant," Peter interrupts; he almost smiles and stares at the ground. "And…you know…what _I_…"

"Yes," Hiro answers, and for some reason his throat tightens even more. "But please don't, Peter Petrelli."

Peter shrugs, but the gesture is anything but nonchalant. "Then tell me what else to do."

Hiro hesitates. He looks at Kensei and sees Adam stare back at him, sharp and calculating, eyes darting for exits, and suddenly knows this is the only choice.

"Okay. O-kay."

Kensei makes a sound and Hiro reluctantly glances up to meet his eyes. The total betrayal on his face is familiar, as is the hatred, and the shock Hiro sees there is no surprise either. What does take him aback is the fear. Horror clouds Kensei's—_Adam's_—blue eyes, and Hiro finds himself realizing, belatedly, that it is only natural that the immortal be terrified of dying.

Then Kensei speaks, and any feelings of pity Hiro might have had vanish. "I did promise you would suffer." He laughs. "Do you feel like a heroic now, _Hiro_? Does murder feel heroic? Because if so, then that would make me your namesake."

Peter growls in the back of his throat, but Hiro forestalls him by speaking.

"I gave you a second chance," he tells Kensei blankly. He shakes his head, and forces the word past his lips: "I…was a fool…to trust you again."

"You!" Kensei answers, outraged and amused by this idea. "_You_? No, rather, _I _was the fool. It was _I _that gave you a second chance, Hiro. I remembered your first betrayal the day I woke up from nightmares of what happened the _second _time I trusted you. And yet, like the _fool"_—he spits the word—"that I am, I trusted that perhaps, though you had stolen my life and my princess, you might be a changed man. After all, were you not here, helping me? Had you not saved me from my eternal suffering beneath ground at the hands of some anonymous lunatic? And so…I _trusted_."

"You make it sound like one of the Deadly Sins," Peter spits at him, but Kensei does not take the bait and refuses to be distracted.

"So this, _carp_, is the third time you've betrayed me. I am growing tired of it now. Kill me; and let there not be a fourth."

Hiro stares at him for one long, aching moment. Then he looks at Peter and calmly orders, "Do it."

Kensei drops. His head hits the stone edge of the fountain with a sickening sound. The blonde's eyes fly open, lips parted but silent, staring at Peter who is clinging to the front of his shirt, half kneeling. It is at that moment that Kensei seems to realize that he is being cheated of his victory, that death is not what is in store for him, and his entire face contorts as though in pain.

"No!" he yells at first, breathless, outraged, struggling, _incensed_, "No, no, no!" But after a moment he seems to realize the futility of it and sinks into venomous passivity, bottom lip curled insolently as Peter holds onto his jaw and turns his head into the light.

"Can you do this?" Hiro asks as flatly as he can.

Kensei's eyes, below Peter's palm, flicker to look at him. They are blazingly reproachful. Will this, perhaps, be catalogued as the forth betrayal? Hiro doesn't like the way he's counting.

"I think so," Peter answers, and Hiro gladly looks away from Kensei to look at him instead. He looks overwhelmed, blinking too much, and swallowing between every word. "Yeah, I—I think so."

"Then do it," Hiro says in a voice just as emotionless as before, and Kensei's eyes find him again, full of a blinding hatred that is all too familiar. The silence surprises him, though the hatred does not: after all, there are a thousand things Kensei could say to weigh on Hiro's conscience, and yet he chooses not to speak. Perhaps he knows that his silence will be worse. Because though Hiro wants to think of Adam, wants to _blame _Adam, all he can think of is Kensei promising, _you will suffer_ with the exact same gleam in his eyes and in the end, he knows, it comes back to him—_his_ betrayal and _his _fault for all the betrayals that followed.

"Cover his eyes," Hiro finds himself saying, unable to bear it anymore. "Please."

"Don't say please," Peter answers, curtly, and that more than anything betrays his distress. Still, he obeys—something he is becoming painfully good at – moving his hand and covering that blue gaze. Kensei—_Adam—_hisses in response, instinctively trying to jerk away, but Peter's hold on him is firm and he only manages to hit the back of his head against the rim of the fountain again.

It takes an eternity. Being shielded from Kensei's glare all the while is a blessing, but it also makes Kensei look oddly vulnerable—weaponless. He is slumped against the side of the fountain, head supported by Peter's fingers, one of his trouser legs bunched up around his calf, exposing a slender white ankle. His mouth, such an expressive part of his body, is a more crooked line than usual, and staring at him for this long, Hiro can't help but notice that his top shirt button has also somehow gotten undone. He thinks Kensei must be in much the same state.

Eventually it is over. Peter lets go and backs away, and the sound of water running fills the silence that follows. Kensei's head falls onto his right shoulder; he looks no different than a moment ago, and for some reason, this is the most unbearable.

"How much did you take?" Hiro asks, not wanting the answer but desperate to fill the silence.

Peter doesn't look at him, backing away from Kensei's slumped form. "I don't know. I tried…to only take what I had to. But I…I don't know. I'm sorry, Hiro."

After a moment, Hiro swallows and nods. He should be okay with this answer. Kensei – _Adam_—has just tried to kill him. Why should Hiro care if he cannot remember what they were on the verge of? Why should it matter if Kensei—_Adam_—cannot recall kissing him, teasing him, charming him and catching him and reeling him in like the carp that he is? It shouldn't matter.

"It _doesn't_ matter," Hiro says, aloud. "It _doesn't_."

Peter makes a little laughing, choking sound, unconvinced and clearly aware of what he is thinking. It makes Hiro feel guilty. None of this is Peter's fault, after all; in fact, Peter has heroically been trying to prevent this very disaster since the beginning. Hiro thinks about saying all of this, thanking him—with an inkling this is somewhere involved in their unspoken bargain—but he can't seem to get the words out.

"I'm sorry," he says instead, suddenly ashamed of what he cannot help but feel is taking advantage and too upset to know better than to voice it. Peter's jaw tightens a little, but after a moment he sighs and answers, "don't be," with only the barest hint of impatience in his voice. "I asked you to."

"No," Hiro answers for some reason, unable to leave well enough alone. "No, that's not—you _told _me this would happen. And I did not listen."

This time Peter can't find patience. "Don't," he says tersely, the beginnings of panic lurking on his face. "Just don't."

And Hiro understands—Peter doesn't want him to be sorry, can't _bear_ for him to be sorry…but he can't do it anymore. He can no longer find the energy to act confident, to have an answer for most questions, to think of tasks for Peter to find relief in fulfilling—to _be in charge_. After all, why should Peter listen to anything he says? Hiro has been wrong all along. How can he even begin to tell somebody _else _what to do?

Hiro glances up to realize Peter's hand is on his arm. He feels so tired; too tired to act for even a moment longer, and so he lets Peter hug him, lets Peter pull him back down to the concrete and make him sit there, cross-legged, in loose-limbed, heavy-lidded silence. Peter kneels in front of him and touches his cheek with his fingers, slow, apologetic. It is a simple gesture, but it is accompanied by a realization that nearly stops Hiro's heart. The muscles in his face tense beneath Peter's fingers and Peter's expression of distraction clears.

"It's alright," he appeals to Hiro distinctly, soothingly. "I think I've got the hang of it now." He shuffles closer. "I'll be careful, I promise."

"Please," Hiro mumbles, unsure what he is asking for, and Peter kisses his forehead and then pulls back to rest his hand there instead, as though checking Hiro for a temperature.

_See you in a little while_, Hiro wants to say in his emphasized, halting English. His eyes close before he can.

**A/N: They are going to cheer up eventually, I swear. God dammit, Sylar! They were almost getting over all the angst and then **_**you **_**showed up. But I suppose now at least Hiro & Adam can go back to being happy chappies. Peter, of course, is just going to get **_**angrier**_**. What is **_**with **_**him? **

**A/N 2: And, um, sorry this took so long. ( Uni is fail at the moment, guyz. BUT IT IS ALL OVER NOW. YAY.**

**A/N 3: OMG, 3000 word chapter. To make up for the wait. Love you all, as usual. Fandom is ultimate anti-drug after all. **


	10. Day Seven: Peter

A Month of Stolen Time

**Warnings:** Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume.**  
Set:** Post 2nd Volume finale.**  
Songlist:** Useless, _Depeche Mode_  
Grieve, _Peter Gabriel_

_It was only one hour ago__  
It was all so different then  
Nothing__ yet has really sunk in  
Looks like it always did_

_Grieve_, Peter Gabriel

Day Seven

_Peter_

It is another sleepless night for Peter, but this time his insomnia is with good reason.

They are in Paris, France and it is the 12th of July. Peter thinks they might have they lost a day or two travelling, but he can't be sure, since he wasn't exactly keeping track back in New York. They're in a little hotel called _Hotêl Darcet_, the first place Peter could find with vacancies that _didn't_ want money paid in advance. The concierge had arched an eyebrow upon seeing him in his somewhat tatty, stained clothing, and carefully emphasized in his best English _zat Paris iz an expensive place_. Peter had waved the warning aside—Hiro might find it difficult to suddenly procure money, but Adam, surely will have no trouble repairing their finances when he wakes up.

Thankfully, that's not likely to happen soon. At the moment, Adam is sprawled on a patterned duvet, the expression of openness and vulnerability Peter is used to observing on his face when he sleeps the only thing preventing Peter from pushing him onto the floor and claiming the bed himself. That, and a promise he's made to the other unconscious person in this room—Hiro.

The last room available, had, by some unprecedented stroke of luck, been a twin, Hiro currently occupies the second bed in it, also sleeping, and much more carefully arranged than Adam is. Looking around the room, Peter can't help but think the term "_twin_" is somewhat ambitious: the two beds are separated by a five inch wide gap that is almost impossible to navigate. Still, he's grateful for even the semblance of space; his skin crawls slightly even being in the same _room _as Adam, but that cannot be helped—at least, not until Hiro wakes up, and Peter can explain what has happened. There is, of course, the nagging fear that Hiro will not believe him, and for the hundredth time, Peter wonders if wiping his memory was the right thing—wonders if he had done it for Hiro, or for himself, knowing that the damage Adam had done to the time traveller was irreparable and also knowing, selfishly, that he needed Hiro _whole_.

A sound draws Peter's attention, shaking him gratefully from his thoughts. Almost drowning has left Hiro with a soft, whistling snore that had initially made Peter smile, but hearing it now makes him feel a little anxious. His vigil has lasted hours, and neither Adam nor Hiro has woken up. Making this worse is the distressing suspicion that he has somehow _overdone_ the memory wipe; that perhaps they have been damaged by his meddling. This possibility is so unbearable that Peter pushes determinedly from his mind, turning to look at the bedside clock. It reads 22:40, and Peter has to count it out on his fingers to figure out what that means in AM/PM time. Hunger is beginning to gnaw at his stomach, but he doesn't want to leave Hiro here alone to wake up to lost time and an unfamiliar place. He knows that feeling too well to wish it on another person. By midnight, however, his resolve to keep awake is fading. He raids the mini-bar half-heartedly, careful to leave some food behind—Hiro will be famished when he wakes—and finally decides to go to bed. He crawls onto the duvet and lies beside Hiro, a precautionary distance from the other man, and turns over onto his side to stare at the blinking figures of the alarm clock.

0:04.

0:20.

0:43.

1:03.

1:39.

2:02.

2:24.

Why did he expect to able to sleep here? He hasn't anywhere else. He stares at the ceiling, and is considering getting up and having a long shower when a sound in the darkness startles him.

"Peter?"

A hand touches his arm and Peter finds himself releasing a breath.

"Hiro," he says, feeling dizzy with relief and irritated by how obviously it infuses his words. "You're awake."

"Where are we?" His Japanese accent is somehow more pronounced in the darkness. "Is Kensei here?"

"Yes," another voice answers before Peter can. "I'm here, Hiro."

Disappointed and frustrated, Peter pulls back to find the light switch. A dim, sickly yellow light floods the room, and Peter sits up to see Adam, upright in his bed, arms crossed over his chest, expression harsh and unreadable. After a second, however, his eyes fall on Hiro and his face visibly softens.

"We seem to have a lost a day," he explains with uncanny gentleness, before turning to look at Peter and saying, in a sharper voice, "Perhaps Peter here would be so kind as to explain what has happened."

Hiro twists around to look at him and Peter feels a flare of defensiveness at the accusatory expression on the time-traveller's face.

"You asked me to," he tells Hiro as matter-of-factly and guilelessly as he can—never mind that it's not _quite _true. Adam waits politely for a moment before making a sound in the back of his throat, demanding attention, and Peter obligingly turns to him and says, "You _didn't_," and tries to make it as venomous as possible. Adam's polite expression clouds, his eyes narrow, and Peter feels a little surge of triumph, that he tries, probably unsuccessfully, to keep from his face.

"You took our memories?"

Hiro's voice is alarmed, wounded. Peter turns to face him with a feeling like dread to see that his eyes are even wider than usual, holding a shocking amount of hurt. It goes through Peter like a knife—physically painful, as though Sylar is back and gouging out an impressive section of his stomach again. It's all he can do to keep his hand relaxed by his side, and not to clutch it to his stomach over an invisible wound.

"You _asked _me to," he finally protests, trying and failing to keep his emotions from colouring his tone. Hiro's expression, however, does not flicker, and finally, he has no recourse but to say, quietly, the one thing he wanted to avoid saying in front of Adam at all costs: "You know I'd never do anything you told me not to."

Hiro's expression softens. His shoulders drop and he rubs a hand across his face. He touches Peter's hand, lying on the duvet, by way of unspoken apology, and Peter accepts it wordlessly. Remaining angry with Hiro, after all, is not an option, no matter _how _much he resents the man's lack of trust.

"I must have had a very good reason to tell you to do that," Hiro muses aloud after a moment. "Maybe the time line…?" Adam makes another small, slight noise, and Hiro looks over at him. "Whatever my reasoning, I had no right to ask Peter to take your memories too, if you did not wish me to. I apologize, Kensei. I should not have done that."

Adam looks momentarily taken aback by the apology, as though it is unexpected. He takes a second to answer. "No harm done," he says eventually, choosing his words carefully. "After all, you don't even remember doing it. My holding you accountable would be…laughable." Hiro looks mildly confused by this response, but Peter, of course, knows exactly what Adam is referring to, and comes dangerously close to telekinetic violence. Instead, he swallows a snarl with considerable difficulty, and rolls off the bed, suddenly wanting to get as far away from Adam as possible, which, sadly, is not very far at all. The blonde smirks at him knowingly, hands placed delicately over the coverlet, already perfectly attuned with the new surroundings. Hiro, meanwhile, is taking a little more time to get used to the hotel room—once the silence settles, he stands up, inches his way between the beds and begins his tour of the miniscule space. After mere seconds he is back, looking slightly more comfortable but also confused. He stands in the doorway of the tiny adjacent bathroom and pushes his glasses up his nose with an adorably quizzical little thrust.

"We're not in New York."

Peter smiles a little at that, and at Hiro's familiar wide-eyed look. "No," he agrees. "After… There was some trouble yesterday. I thought…for…safety reasons… It wouldn't have been a good idea to stay in New York."

"Safety!" Hiro repeats, with alarm. "Safety? _I _am in no danger, but Ando—"

"No!" Peter protests, fiercely. He can see where this is going. "Hiro, remember why you wanted me to _be _here in the first place! If someone—" He bites his lip and throws a wary glance at Adam, who returns it steadily. "You wouldn't be able to—"

Hiro cuts him off. "I will be fine, Peter. But I amgoing to see Ando. I _must_." Stubbornness is etched all over his face, and Peter is wordless as Hiro reaches for the door handle. In fact, all Peter can think to do at first is ask him why he's bothering with door handles in the first place, but then the more pressing concern resurfaces, and he catches Hiro's arm. The time traveller makes a little squashed sound in the back of his throat.

"That's not a good idea." Adam, rooting through the mini-bar, looks over the fridge door and meets Peter's eyes. "What…what you thought was going to happen happened." There is no comprehension on Hiro's face, so Peter tries again, awkwardly, "The reason…the watchmaker…"

"Oh," Hiro says, finally getting it. "The watchmaker."

"Yeah," Peter confirms vaguely, still staring at Adam who is watching them with an odd smile on his face. He removes his hand from Hiro's wrist and is surprised when Hiro turns the door handle anyway. The time-traveller's expression is slightly apologetic, but mostly determined.

"If…what you say has happened happened…then I really _must _go see Ando," Hiro explains, softly. "He could be in danger."

"You could _put_ him in danger," Peter warns darkly, and Hiro's expression hardens. He opens his mouth to say one thing, then seems to change his mind and says instead, "Do not hurt Kensei while I am gone. I _mean _that, Peter."

Peter doesn't like it, but he can't pick and choose—least of all when he so recently reprimanded Hiro for doing the same. "Alright," he acquiesces wearily, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Tiredness is returning, as well as the sick feeling in his stomach, and he can tell from Hiro's expression that the time-traveller notices, but it doesn't stop him from leaving and that seems to make the feeling worse. The door slams and Peter turns away to see Adam sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, elegantly wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. The expression on his face says that he is amused by Hiro's order.

"So you're not hurt me, is that it?"

Sitting there, floppy-limbed and clothes loose-hanging, he looks better in Nathan's wardrobe than Nathan ever did. The sight knots pain through Peter's chest, and he swallows, suddenly nauseous. He wants to tell Adam to get changed, but doesn't dare open his mouth to do it, and so he goes over to the window instead and looks out. It's the only way to get Adam completely out of his field of vision.

"What happened?"

Peter, despite himself, looks around. Adam is drinking—_alcohol_, Peter realizes belatedly, salvaged from the mini bar. Adam follows Peter's gaze to the bottle lying sideways on the coverlet and smiles self-deprecatingly.

"It ap_pears_ I have a taste for it," he says idly, twisting his mouth ever so slightly at the non-committal verb. "Would you care for some?"

Unwillingly, Peter moves forward. He doesn't want to get drunk the second Hiro leaves him alone, he really doesn't, but it seems the safer of the few alternatives left to him, and so he accepts the bottle Adam proffers with a resentful scowl and unscrews the cap. The liquid is surprisingly sweet—it would be more fitting, Peter thinks, for Adam to be drinking something unbearably acrid—and when he takes a sip, it seems to pool in the part of his chest that feels empty and aching. He drinks more, and feels the warmth fill his stomach…and then even more, repairing the hole the best way he knows how, self-disgusted and comical in his literalness.

"I would rather you left me _some_," Adam interrupts after a short while, amusement and triumph mingling to make his voice more syrupy than usual. The smugness on his face is all the incentive Peter needs to fumble the lid back on and thrust the bottle back, struggling for impassivity…but Adam isn't fooled.

"There," he says softly, eyes sharp and frighteningly perceptive. "Feel better yet?"

"Shut up," Peter suggests, looking out the window again. Adam laughs.

"You really do _loathe_ me, don't you?"

The window pane, Peter notices, is gathering moistness along the edges. "You have noidea."

"What did I do?" Adam's reflection tilts its head to the side and releases a frustrated sigh. "Unless I'm much mistaken, Peter, I have the right to face my accuser. Is it so unreasonable for me to want to know the crime you believe I've committed? And _then_, by all means, make me answer for it. But give _me _a few answers before, Peter, _please_. I'm not playing with you. And I won't tattle to Hiro, either, if _that_'s what you're worried about."

Peter turns around. There is something on Adam's face that he has never seen there before—burning curiosity. It makes him look a lot less smug and a lot more human, unfolding his want for Peter to see and _simultaneously baring his ignorance_. Adam, after all, is not the kind of man who forgives ignorance; knowledge is power, and nobody has ever kept more avidly to this motto than he, so Peter is considerably surprised to see just how desperate Adam is for information. A part of him is worried over the manipulative use the blonde is bound to make of it, but another, regrettably larger part wants the moral authority to make Adam pay for his acts, a moral authority Peter cannot possess until he accuses Adam directly. And finally, the latter is enough—it's _too _much, and Peter _has _to speak…regardless of the consequences.

"My brother," he begins, and there he stops, unable to go further. The term has always seemed full enough to describe his relationship with Nathan, almost self-explanatory, almost _justification_ as much as condemnation—until now. Now it rings hollow and trite, unable to even touch upon the strength of what passed between them, but Peter has no idea how to clarify…and Adam, somehow, seems to understand nonetheless. His expression is one of revelation, a variety of emotions flitting over his face, unhidden, as a portion of his memory reconstructs, restitching thread after thread.

"Nathan," Adam says, snapping his eyes up to Peter's face. "Nathan, is that…? _Your brother_. Of course he is. Of course."

He sits back slightly, face expectant and settled as more memories re-emerge, and in the silence, Peter wonders whether he shouldn't take them back again, and more thoroughly this time. It isn't a complicated question—he _knows_ that he should; more so, that Hiro would _want_ him to. _But Hiro never knew Adam_, Peter remembers suddenly. _Hiro knew Kensei. _He looks up again, biting his lip this time, wondering who he is looking at. Kensei? Adam? Some mixture of the two? _Adam_, his head answers. _Adam_, _pretending to be Kensei. Adam, without knowing that Hiro buried him_. He _then_ wonders if this Adam knows that he plotted to release a virus that would decimate the world's population, and then realizes he doesn't care. That was never the problem—not really; it was an incomplete crime, a power-hungry plot justified by three-hundred-years of agonizing knowledge. No, as far as Peter is concerned, Adam is guilty of far, far worse, and suddenly Peter is glad it is out in the open—because now, he doesn't have to hold himself back.

By the time he has come to this conclusion, Adam has found his tongue.

"What happened to Nathan, then? You were in pieces when we met, Peter, devastated by his injury…and from the expression on your face _now_, I think poor Nathan must have _died_."

The silence is thankfully short.

"I see," Adam continues coolly, not missing a beat. "My condolences, Peter. Did I kill him?"

The blonde's voice is unconcerned, throw-away, and Peter feels anger flare again over the numbness. He grits his teeth and spits out, with difficulty, "_Yes_," and then for some reason, keeps going, almost correcting himself: "You were _responsible_ for his death."

"_Ah_," Adam says, the bored expression clearing slightly now that a debate is imminent. "Responsibility, however, sounds a _little_ different to murder, wouldn't you say? And ask yourself this: why would I kill your brother, Peter? I had no quarrel with him. If I recall correctly, I even helped save his life."

"How much do you remember?!" Peter suddenly demands, belatedly alarmed.

"Not enough," Adam answers, sounding slightly less amused. "And certainly nothing incriminating. Though," he adds, with a brave attempt at mockery, "if you think I haven't guessed where my memory loss has come from yet, you're a greater fool than I believed."

Adam's voice softens when he is talking about his memory loss; his words become unsure, accusatory…almost bordering on lost. Hearing it puts Peter off his guard, and he is not prepared for Adam's next words.

"I did not kill your brother, Peter. You know I didn't. And I don't believe you ever truly thought I did."

There is a proverb that Peter is very familiar with that says _the truth hurts_. It has never rung truer than now. Adam's voice is cold and soft and the most round-edged it's been all night, but it wounds Peter in a way no other comment of his could have. Every single emotion is suddenly being dragged up his throat, chokingly, and because Peter can't possibly hope to find words to express them all, he seizes Adam by the collar and kisses him on the mouth instead. It's forceful, suffocating, all teeth and tongue and deliberately uncomfortable—even painful as oxygen dwindles, but Peter does not let up. Adam's lips feel warm beneath his; every gasp he drags from Adam's lips fills a silence that's been building up in his head for a long time now, and it's unbearable and alleviating all at once, like having feeling suddenly return to a frozen limb in a roar of pain.

"Well now, Peter," Adam mocks when he finally pulls away, "I would have said that a lot earlier if I'd known—"

Peter's mouth finds Adam's collarbone, effectively shutting him up, and before he knows it he is plucking buttons open, pulling Adam out of Nathan's clothes, and _oh, god_, something this awful shouldn't feel this good, and vice versa, and even though Peter feels like he might start crying any moment, he just—can't—stop.

Adam laughs lightly at Peter's neediness, eyes fluttering closed intermittently, breath staggering slightly as Peter slides icy fingers up his sides.

"If my wearing his clothes bothered you so much, Peter, you could just have asked me to change. No need to—"

Abruptly, Peter is furious. What right does Adam have to taunt him in between gasps? Suddenly Peter wants to see the blonde out of control, mouthing obscenities, muddling words and drawing consonants out with that ragged pant that belongs to the common people, instead of the eloquent hiss he manages. If he is nothing but a second-class citizen, he wants to at least see Adam dragged down to the same level—more, he insists on being the one to do the dragging.

Adam's eyes are on his. "What are you thinking?"

Peter doesn't answer with words, and Adam staggers away from his blow to sit down heavily on the bed, half undressed, his open shirt billowing. "Well, this is somewhat familiar," he gasps, gingerly touching the bleeding corner of his lip with his thumb. "Though unexpected. I was under the impression, Peter, that Hiro had ordered you not to hurt me. And I was _also_ under the impression that you do whatever Hiro tells you to do."

Again, Peter is impressed by Adam's talent for finding the exact right words. He takes a couple of steps back, curling and uncurling his fists, and trying very hard to calm down before he explodes into a radioactive furnace. By the time he dares look up, Adam's lip is healed over, and the only evidence left is a smear of red on the blonde's thumb.

"We share that much," he admits after a second, and Adam smiles and outstretches his hand. Peter stares at the slightly reddened fingers, unsure of what Adam wants.

"For Hiro's sake," Adam says after a moment, and again—Peter finds himself reaching out and clasping the other man's hand obediently.

It's enough. Adam tugs him closer, seizes his waist, and pulls him forward onto the bed to kiss his throat. When Peter doesn't respond, Adam only pulls him closer by the hair and hisses in his ear, "What do I have to do, Peter? Do I have to be _related _to you for you to _fuck _me?"

It sounds absolutely filthy in his crisp British accent, and it has the desired effect. Peter seizes his shoulders and pushes him against the mattress, hard, glaring down at him. Adam merely smiles back, unfussed and superior, and maybe that, too, is calculated, because it makes Peter yank the buckle of Adam's belt undone with unnecessary violence, utterly consumed with the need to make Adam more human.

"See," Adam hisses, delighted and smug, "I knew you would like this, Peter. I used to fantasize about it, you know—anything to pass those three, long, aching months…"

He continues along these lines, dragging Peter back into blind hatred every time he is about to pull back or pull away or ask himself _what on earth he is doing_. This is the most obvious of all his manipulations, and the fact that Peter is _still _falling for it stings—but there is always something appealing about the traps Adam lays, so it isn't too hard to push aside the guilt. Adam sighs beneath him as he feels Peter surrender; his eyes light up, and he reaches out to cup Peter's face under the jaw, pushing up with four long, tapered fingers and an almost excruciating grip.

In the end it is more painful than pleasurable—for Adam, at least, and Peter wonders more than once why the blonde is goading him to this. Whatever the reason, Adam never lets his thoughts settle for long, muttering something to remind Peter of why he is a terrible person every time he senses his distraction, and Peter responds as Adam expects him to: by biting his lip, digging and curling his fingers around Adam's ribs—anything to make the composed, condescending expression on Adam's face flicker.

"Do you speak French?" Peter asks later, just to break the silence.

"_Oui_," Adam answers emotionlessly. "Why?"

Peter buttons up his shirt, and after a moment, when it becomes apparent Adam isn't going to, does his as well. Adam seems quite content to be manhandled, a sleepy, conniving little smile on his face. "We're in Paris," Peter tells him, wanting to somehow get rid of the expression.

"Are we really?" Adam glances over to the window and then back again. "How romantic."

"Shut up," Peter tries, but his voice isn't as rough as earlier, and Adam just smiles.

**A/N: Okay. I fully don't know where that came from. You weren't meant to get that till quite a bit later. Okay. Um. **

**A/N 2: Guys, I have **_**plot**_**! I don't know how this snuck up on me, I never intended to have **_**plot**_**. So here, have some smex beforehand to keep you going through the unsmexy plotty bits. **


	11. Day Seven: Hiro

**Warnings:** Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume.  
**Set:** Post 2nd Volume finale.  
**Songlist:** Elliott Smith

_Drink up baby,__  
look at the stars  
__I'll kiss you again__  
between the bars_

Between the Bars, Elliott Smith

Day Seven

_Hiro_

The first place Hiro goes looking for Ando is perhaps the most obvious: the office. It is, after all, where they first met; it's the place they spent they most of their time, before Hiro had to run off and save the world and drag Ando along with him as his valiant sidekick. Ando is the only reason Hiro is able to remember Yamagato Industries with even the slightest fondness: even separated as they were by busywork, tyrannical supervisors, and row after row of cubicles, Ando's presence had suffused every inch of each workday, made the monotony bearable.

The office looks a little different these days, and now that Hiro is no longer working there, the higher-ups are more prone to show him favouritism. When he was alive, his father had been very adamant about Hiro working his way to the top by himself, but this is no longer an issue, and Hiro is ushered in quickly, addressed respectfully and offered an unnecessary glass of water. It takes a little while for him to shake off the amassed horde of sycophants, but eventually he is left alone, and able to trace his way to Ando's workspace in peace.

The cubicles at Yamagato Industriescannot be said to be roomy, and Ando's was always a little worse than the already uncomfortable standard. Still, ensconced inside it daily from early morning to nightfall, Ando had found ways to make the space more accommodating: lining the desk with amusing and occasionally tasteless bobble heads, cramming the drawers with sweets, (mainly catering for Hiro's sweet tooth) and (in the very bottom draw, at the back, just in case) cheap beer, and thoroughly personalising his laptop by installing countless car racing cracks and littering his folders with hidden pornographic links. Ando's cubicle, however, when Hiro reaches it, looks nothing like it used to. The surfaces are clear of bobble heads, instead crowded with papers, and the laptop is currently displaying the bland company screensaver, blinking generic light and shade patterns around the four walls. Most importantly, the man sitting within the cubicle, looking slightly dazzled by the repetitious image, is not Ando. He does, however, look around when Hiro enters.

"Hello? Can I help you?" He addresses Hiro in polite but confused Japanese, and after a second Hiro is recovered enough to ask for Ando Masahashi. The man frowns at the question—or rather, at Hiro's _wording _of it; it rings strangely anglicised and Hiro is quite embarrassed by his awkward sentence structure. As foreign as English still seems at times, it has finally become comfortable—so comfortable that it is apparently starting to slip into his head and attempt to form his sentences for him.

"He changed cubicles," the man tells him. "Just this morning. You can find it right down the hall." The man speaks in little puffs. He's quite overweight, with his belly swelling against the desk, face round and pleasant. Hiro thanks him distractedly and follows his instructions, walking down the hallway towards the cubicle at the far end with an oddly queasy feeling in his stomach. It's a small thing, but for some reason, not finding Ando is his usual cubicle makes Hiro feel very nervous. Then he turns the corner and knows his feeling is totally justified. The new cubicle is completely empty, except for a swivel chair and the person who occupies it.

Hiro shouts. It is clearly not a good move on his behalf, because Sylar jerks where his sits and Hiro finds himself hitting the floor and being dragged across it, perhaps a punishment for his lack of silence. He is rolled over onto his back, chest heaving, where he grits his teeth and tries to sit up to find a great weight dropped onto his chest. Worse, there is a pressure settling around his neck now, pressing down hard, and Hiro struggles against it, feet scrabbling at the floor, trying to buck the invisible weight away. He closes his eyes as the pressure increases and his body's jerking comes to a halt. Air is a thin trickle he manages to pull between his lips; his lungs ache, and he is surprised to find the feeling familiar. Somewhere in his mind, a memory is unfurling itself in a long red ribbon of asphyxiation, but before his thoughts still enough for him to understand, his throat is freed again, and the slow sucking of air becomes a torrent. It hits his lungs with painful sharpness, and for a moment all he can do is gasp, gasp, gasp, and let his eyes flutter from shut to open.

It is all over and Hiro knows it. There is no hope he can regain the concentration required to time travel, or space-travel, or stop time, so he just lies there, dazed, letting the helplessness well up alongside his fear. The feeling lasts a long moment—too long, as a matter of fact. After several seconds of staggered breathing, Hiro manages to blink open his eyes, very quickly, face scrunched up and absolutely terrified of what he might see. There is a face above his, and so he closes his eyes again immediately, hoping against hope that the old children's adage still holds true: _if you can't see them, they can't see you_. And then, just when he thinks he might scream, or faint, or do something else horribly unheroic, he hears a voice very close to his ear, hot and husky.

"Your friend," it says, "speaks very good English. Isn't it funny, though: when he so much as stubs his toe, he simply starts _screaming _in Japanese, and then, well, it's impossible to get a sensible word out of him. And I was _really _looking forward to a chat."

Fire floods his lungs and burns up his air; Hiro sits up, coughing, his hands trembling. "You want something," he manages to say after a second, fiercely trying not to imagine the cadence of Ando's screaming. Instead, he lifts his hand and shoves his glasses _hard _into the bridge of his nose. It comforts him enough so he can open his eyes. The look he turns on Sylar is a little glazed, but it is all he can manage so far and it will have to do.

"That's right," Sylar answers, amused. He pulls back a little now, still smiling in that sickly way of his. "You know what I want. I made it clear at our last meeting. So do as I ask and you can have your friend back, safe…and _mainly _sound. Your choice, Nakamura. Feel free to take your time deciding, too—he's wonderfully entertaining—"

Anger blazes through Hiro; he tries to do something—he's not sure what. Then he opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, silence curled around his brain, making his head ring.

Time, he realizes after a moment, has passed. A great deal of it. The light grey ceiling seems darker now, shadowed; in other words, it is no longer early morning. Luckily, lost time has never been a problem for Hiro—well, at least, until _now_. _Now_ it could mean the difference between Ando living, breathing, lining an extra bobble head contentedly on his new old desk…and…the other alternative is too horrible to think of.

Panicked by this thought, Hiro sits up. The movement is painful; Hiro's head aches, his lungs chafe with every breath, and yet, he is curiously alive. Has he been hallucinating the entire past hour, or has Sylar been replaced by a pod person? Why is Hiro's forehead still smooth and intact? After a second, he decides not to question his good luck. After all, he has more pressing concerns: Sylar's insinuations have come alive in his imagination, and Hiro squashes his eyes shut, absolutely determined to teleport _this instant_. Once he manages to calm down, it is surprisingly easy: just a matter of closing his eyes and opening them again.

"Hiro!"

Peter's voice makes him jump. Looking around, he barely has time to glimpse the empath curled on the edge of one of the beds, a slightly off kilter smile on his face before arms encircle him and Hiro finds himself being hugged by Kensei. He is even more surprised when Peter follows suit, pressing damp hair against his neck for a long moment before pulling away.

"You were worried?" He asks them dumbly, and is embarrassed by both the politely incredulous look Kensei shoots his way and the flicker of helplessness that crosses Peter's face. "I'm sorry." It's inadequate, but he thinks it should be said—especially to Peter. He still feels guilty over the way he left the empath, with that expression on his face that Hiro was supposed to recognize, but that he had ignored anyway. It's what Peter's reprimanded him for before—picking and choosing, when he knows all along that it doesn't work that way.

"What happened?"

Kensei's voice makes Hiro look up. The blonde's expression is uncomfortably knowing for someone they are keeping in the dark; Hiro shakes his head in response, the sick feeling pooling in his stomach again.

"It is as I thought," he says once he finds his tongue, avoiding Kensei's question. "Ando is in danger."

Peter's response is alarm; Kensei merely quirks an eyebrow, completely unruffled. "Forgive me, but I don't understand. _What. Happened_?"

Hiro doesn't answer. He throws Peter a look of panic, wordlessly asking for help—unsure how much he can explain when he is, after all, _missing _a day—but Peter is silent, both inside and out. Frustration makes Hiro hold the look a little too long and Kensei's eyes flicker between the two of them, understanding blossoming on his face.

"If you explain further," he begins lightly, "I am more likely to be of help, Hiro. As it is, I can only speculate…" At this point, Kensei drifts off, as if to give Hiro an opportunity to speak. A moment passes before the blonde realizes an explanation is not forthcoming, a moment before he shrugs and continues. "This man…Peter called him a _watchmaker_. What did he want?"

"You," Hiro is forced to answer.

For the first time tonight, total surprise crosses Kensei's face. "Me?" he repeats, incredulous, some of the good humour Hiro knows so well creeping into his voice. "Why on earth would he want me?"

Hiro doesn't speak immediately, and when he does, he answers with a question. "How much do you remember?" He regrets asking it instantly: the comical expression fades from the Kensei's face, to be replaced by something startling: anger, and worse—disgust.

"I remember _fragments_," the blonde says finally, bitingly, voice laced with contempt. "Some of feudal Japan with _you_, Hiro; some of a prison where _you,_ Peter"—he turns to face him—"were my only companion. And finally, I remember, _most _intimately, the darkness of a coffin. Is that enough to satisfy you, Hiro? Do you judge it to be too much, Peter?"

There is an awful silence. Hiro imagines his face must look somewhat like Peter's: jaw slack with surprise, mouth crooked with guilt. Kensei allows the moment to settle before speaking again, voice painfully emotionless: "You cannot keep me in the dark forever. I've spent long enough in the dark."

Peter is the first to speak in the quiet that follows.

"The watchmaker wants to kill you, Adam. He'll kill all of us if he can. He's taken Hiro's friend because he wants Hiro to give you to him. Do you understand?"

And odd expression settles over Kensei's face and the nauseous feeling Hiro has been experiencing intensifies. He is beginning to recognize it as eerily accurate foreboding.

"In that case Hiro will simply have to give me up, won't he?"

_No!_

Hiro starts. Across the room, Peter stares at him, a shocked expression on his face, as though it is _Hiro_ and not him who has just telepathically cried out. Behind the shock is something more intriguing, some burgeoning realization, and it's hard to look away from. But then Kensei's words begin to make sense and it's all Hiro can do not to reach out and hold onto the blonde's arm, as though that will somehow keep him here.

"That is a crazy idea," he says when he can finally form words, and with a fierce attempt at calm. "I will not 'give you up'. The watchmaker will kill you, and I will _not_ send you to certain death."

Kensei smiles, a little dangerously, a little carelessly. He is leaning inwards. Hiro wonders if he knows it. "I don't die that easily; you may have noticed—"

"And if he takes your brain, _then _how will you heal?" Hiro knows he sounds frantic, and he doesn't care. They're standing so close now, so close, and he _won't_ give up. He can't. "How will you fix yourself?"

_Hiro! _Peter admonishes silently. _Hiro, take a breath!_

"No," he answers aloud, suddenly absolutely furious that Peter can even _think _to tell _him_ to calm down. "I know you do not care if Kensei dies, I _know_, but _I _do, and I will _not _let it happen—"

"I do," Peter interrupts, and something in the tone of his voice stops Hiro in his tracks. "I _do_ care. But what about Ando? He's your—your best friend, Hiro. And you'll—" Peter hesitates, and then blurts it out like a confession: "You'll never forgive yourself. If you leave him, and he's hurt, you'll…you'll never forgive yourself."

_Peter_, Hiro wants to say, long and slow with sympathy. But what he _wants _to say and what Peter _needs _him to say are entirely different, and Hiro is beginning to learn that: sympathy is out of the question. He says the only other thing he can think of.

"How did he know?"

Confusion replaces the earnest expression on Peter's face. Hiro is grateful for the change, because while sincerity suits Peter, there's something painfully restrained about the way he's going about it this time, as though he's being very careful not to step over an imaginary line, and Hiro's still trying to pretend there's no line at all.

"What're you talking about?" Peter sounds wary, as though he suspects Hiro of trying to change the subject and is determined not to let him get away with it.

"About Kensei. How did he know that Kensei was here, with us?"

"Mohinder," Peter answers after a second, and Hiro looks at him, not understanding. "You remember, the geneticist—Dr. Suresh. He…he must have told him."

A small sound of amusement makes Hiro turn around. Kensei has backed away during their conversation; he is standing a little to the side, politely, a wry little twist nestled in the corner of his mouth. When his eyes meet Hiro's he takes two small steps and bridges the gap between them. The hotel room has, if anything, only gotten smaller and more claustrophobic with time, but for some reason, Hiro doesn't mind as much anymore. He's just glad Kensei's close, because the thought of losing him is making him go cold all over—at least, until Kensei's lips touch his and his entire _body _blushes.

When the kiss ends, Hiro can barely speak. "What—what are you doing?" he splutters eventually. Kensei smiles, and it's an unusually warm expression.

"Nothing," he replies, cheerfully. "I've done it."

Hiro blinks, and the room is empty.

**A/N: I feel mildly guilty about asphyxiating Hiro all the time. I don't know why it keeps happening; it's wildly unnecessary! **

**A/N 2: Sorry for how long this took. As you guys can probably see, it's a little bit of an awkward chapter, and I did have quite some trouble with it. Also—I do want to say that I'm stretching Sylar's characterization for my plot's purpose, which a good author should never do—but what can I say? As we've seen in the past two seasons, after all, Sylar is hardly a negotiating man—and it doesn't matter if he wants Adam's power more than Hiro's; he **_**still **_**isn't going to sit down and have a chat with Hiro about how to get it. I **_**am **_**aware of this. I'm just a bad writer who can't figure out any other way to get her plot to work. Mmm'kay? **


	12. Day Seven: Adam

**Warnings:** Slash. OT3. The wildly improbable Peter/Hiro pairing (eventually). Spoilers for 2nd Volume. Potentially appallingly written Adam!POV!.  
**Set:** Post 2nd Volume finale.  
**Songlist:** Sigur Ros, _Sæglópur_

Day Seven_  
Adam_

When the world stops moving, Adam does not let go of Peter's arm immediately. He speaks before opening his eyes, into darkness, the material of Peter's shirt clenched in his fingers, embarrassingly tight.

"So I was right," he says finally, searching the silence for even footing.

"Right?" Peter asks, sounding, as he always does, extremely reluctant to engage Adam in any conversation.

"About the mind reading." Passion creeps into his voice and he unclenches his fingers. "It's a beautiful talent, Peter. Such a perfect, sublime little skill…so useful, too, I'd imagine…"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Adam opens his eyes. They're in a corridor, a long, darkened corridor with stone walls. Confusion gives way to understanding the longer he looks: a church. It's incongruous and delightful, like a murderer crying _sanctuary_. He wonders if he shouldn't try it, some day.

"What are you so happy about?" Peter asks, drawing Adam out of his thoughts. There is surprising, but quite pleasing ring of pugnacity in Peter's tone and question, so Adam turns to face him with something like anticipation. The travel through the dark and the material of Peter's shirt has left him with a certain viciousness in his mouth that he is anxious to be rid of.

"Well, Peter…you can't deny this is very…_picturesque_." Adam waves a hand towards the dark stone walls and the low, arched ceiling. "Even gothic. Though I would guess"—he traces a finger down the wall, as though he is inspecting for dust—"that it was built after the gothic era, from the architecture—"

"If Ando dies while you're _examining the architecture_—"

Adam raises an eyebrow. For some reason, the interruption annoys him; he wipes his mouth in a gesture of frustration which immortality has made hard to unlearn.

"Hiro's friend is fine," he tells Peter bitingly, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Screaming echoes, my dear Peter—and churches have wonderful acoustics." He cocks his head to the side in the wonderful silence that follows; like releasing a breath, Adam suddenly he feels calm again. "Now," he says, pleasantly. "After you."

There is a pause before Peter moves, but Adam is feeling patient, relief still pooling in his chest. He even manages a show of obedience, mainly for his own amusement, following Peter with an affected little down-tilt of the head and rehearsed shuffling.

"I hate you," Peter announces to the corridor ahead, and they keep walking.

"Then why bring me along?"

Really, it's hard not to smile when Peter's eyes flicker like that.

"Because it's Sylar," Peter answers finally, reluctantly. "Because I need back up. Because…because I'd rather risk you than Hiro."

Adam almost laughs: honesty surprises him, these days—especially from Peter.

"Is that so? And I thought we'd shared so much."

Peter doesn't say anything, and Adam has to swallow a barbed comment. He's not a fool; he long ago learnt to read silence better than speech, and he knows Peter's lack of comeback isn't a meaningless lack of quick thinking. No; Adam knows he's running out of time—days, if his guess is correct. One month…but which? 30 days has September…why didn't he ever think to ask what month it was? For all he knows, limbo might only last 28 days. And as much as he hates it, as much as he flinches away from suddenly feeling, it's a chance—an opportunity. Adam will be an opportunist till the day he dies, and the sad fact is that there are few opportunities for young upcoming manipulators in the grave.

"What are you thinking?" Peter asks, forcing Adam from his thoughts yet again. His tone makes the question much less pleasant than the words imply; Peter's face is twisted with suspicion, the furrows of his brow barely visible in the low light. "What are you planning?"

Oh, what a difference a verb makes! Adam fights back a smile.

"Why don't you just read my mind?" he suggests, watching Peter's expression closely. "Find out for yourself?"

"I told you, I don't—" The empath breaks off, breathing loud in the sudden silence. He looks shaken. "I _can't_," he amends it to after a second. "Your thoughts are jumping around too much."

Adam doesn't answer immediately, because it takes him a moment to understand the situation and the expression on Peter's face. Limbo is an odd state to be in; emotionless— more so than usual—and sometimes when Adam swallows he can taste earth. Far worse than the small, little physical discomforts, however, is his isolation from intuition, his quarantine from humanity. Concepts that were foreign but easy to grasp are now totally alien, and it makes it hard for him to measure his taunting—pouring a cup of water on the sand and testing for dampness with gloves on. He would tear them off, except he knows that this is preferable, _infinitely_ preferable to being the weak, frightened, needy _boy_ he becomes if he is allowed to marry sensation to memory. No: let his grave remain ghostly, the dirt remain an after-taste; he will make do anesthetized rather than feel the full extent of his injuries. They would cripple him, but he can work blind; it isn't so hard to figure out the expression on Peter's face, after all. Frailty. Adam attacks.

"Would you like me to let them settle?" he offers innocently. "Here—try reading my mind now!" and before Peter can answer, Adam closes his eyes and thinks of the crudest thing he can. There is a hilarious pause before Peter shoves him, hard, and he is forced to blink his eyes open.

"What's wrong with you?" Peter spits out, genuinely disgusted, and for once, Adam is too distracted to give a wry response. They continue walking down the corridor in silence, and Adam pulls up scenario after scenario in his head, adding details with every step.

_A darkened, red-tinted room_, he decides, choosing the colour most people associate with lust. _A long leather couch—a couch, not a bed, because a bed implies domesticity and Peter isn't quite house-trained yet. And on the couch…himself, as he knows he looks, as he has seen himself in the mirror, every portion of his body that has once been wounded and subsequently inspected re-imagined flawlessly, blood-free and pale against the dark upholstery. _

"Stop it," Peter growls, and Adam stops walking suddenly, almost taken by surprise.

"I beg your pardon?" he tries, letting a bit of a smirk play around his mouth—Peter may deny it, but Adam knows he looks good smug. He stealthily amends his fantasy to include this factor, and Peter physically jerks at the addition, spinning around and grabbing onto his forearms with unnecessary force.

_And Peter's there too. Adam takes a certain self-satisfied pleasure in the mapping of _his _body, cramming the image with as many details as he can and knowing each one will be a knife of embarrassment, of anger, of arousal. Oh yes, Peter is there as well, on the couch that suddenly doesn't seem so long, or so big, when there are two bodies on it, entwined, chest against chest, Peter's hand braced against the swelling armrest so he can loom over Adam and take in every detail of his nakedness, his vulnerability, the sensuality of his black-rimmed eye and the slash of red across his mouth, blood spotted just beneath his lip and over his cheek—_

Pain derails Adam's thoughts: his back meets the wall bruisingly hard, his head knocking back against the plaster. Peter glares at him, face millimetres away, angry and uncontrollable and almost moving in the sheer strength of his fury.

"Stop it right now!"

"Oh, why should I?" Adam asks. "Why should I? That's how you like it, isn't it, Peter?"

And before he can answer, Adam hits him, full in the face, an open-handed slap that makes him stagger backwards where Adam finishes the job. Peter crumples after the second blow, eyes shuttering closed—out cold.

Peter, for all his thinness, is bizarrely heavy and difficult to drag. He also comes close to waking several times, frustrating Adam beyond measure as he is forced to pause and gauge whether or not this is a false alarm, or whether he needs to deliver another swift punch to Peter's oddly delicate face.

"Hush," he coos, trying to disguise the biting impatience in his tone as he fingers open the first door he finds singlehandedly. "Hush, hush, love. It's alright. Never let it be said that I do not protect what is mine." The room's empty, predictably, so he drops Peter, places a half sarcastic, half convincing kiss on his forehead and begins rifling through drawers. It takes him a few precious minutes to find a pen in an unlocked draw and some paper in the wastebasket. Once he's finished, he pins the note to Peter's shirt lapels before leaving him there, closing the door softly behind him and starting down the hallway again.

"Parlay!" Adam calls out as he walks, theatrically, remembering another era with both fondness and derision. "Parlay, sir!"

He has not gone too far before a voice answers.

"Parlay?" it repeats. "_Parlay_? I don't think you understand your situation…_sir_." The politeness is a blatant mockery, not the way Adam's is, but different, a cold sneer sliding along the words. "Allow me to explain. You're a lamb. A lamb, bleating uselessly at a wolf. And I just can't _wait _to get my teeth around your throat!"

Abruptly, the corridor is no more—the space has opened up into a small but comparatively spacious room. It isn't until he crosses the threshold that he realizes the corridor behind him ends in a doorway, one that slams behind him with predictable force. The light fixture shakes, casting a strong, white light into his face that soon gets so impossibly bright its source cannot be natural. When he takes another step, a wind picks up about him, deafening him and reducing his march to a staggering limp. After a moment Adam gives in and stops walking, closing his eyes after another second—refusing to be cowed by such theatrics.

"The watchmaker," he remembers aloud. After a second, Adam sticks out his hand with his eyes still closed, mockingly. "I am very pleased to meet you, Mr…Sylar, is it?"

There is a growl—animalistic and uncouth—before his hand is slapped to the side by some supernatural force and Adam reluctantly opens his eyes. A familiar figure stands before him, expression murderous—which is also familiar—and totally unaffected by the storm surrounding him.

"Mr Sylar?" Adam repeats, amiably, almost yelling in order to be heard over the wind. "My name is Adam Monroe. I believe you've been trying to kill me."

The man sighs, and the room is suddenly calm again.

"Talk fast."

Adam decides to take this advice. "This feud between us is futile," he begins, earnestly. "Surely you must see our efforts would be put to much better use were they directed together, against the many enemies we have in common."

Sylar seems to genuinely consider his proposition, but clearly sarcasm is too deeply ingrained because after a moment he tilts his head to the side and drawls, apathetically, "But I suppose you want me not to kill your friends?"

"I'll admit I've gotten attached," Adam concedes, a little coldly. "But I hardly think you're in a position to comment, Mr. Sylar. Peter Petrelli mentioned a certain _Dr. Suresh_…?"

"He's useful," Sylar defends, and Adam allows himself a smile.

"As are Peter and Hiro. Do not misunderstand me—I ask only for a little time. And that if…_when_…they die, it be because _I_ killed them, and no one else. Do I make myself clear?"

Sylar does not look pleased. "Remind me why I'm not killing _you_, right now?"

The million dollar question, as it were. Not for the first time, Adam hopes his assumptions are correct. But then, he has always been an excellent gambler; the higher the risk, the greater the reward. Besides, if it were easy, it wouldn't be fun.

"Because in sparing me, you gain more than immortality: you gain immortality, and an ally. I think in time you will appreciate how…_valuable_…I can be. Really, Mr. Sylar, I think you'll find my demands are few—my own life, of course, and a one month's grace for two of my…friends."

Sylar's brow furrow. "One month?"

It is an arbitrary guess, really, but likely to fit—weeks are too short, years too long, and he's got an inkling Sylar isn't exactly going to keep count. He just needs _time_. And confirmation, but that comes later.

"One month," Adam promises. "After which I really would appreciate your intervention. I've developed an abhorrence of graveyards; and I would rather not spend any more time entombed. Regretfully,"—he spreads his hands—"I am harmless compared to Peter and Hiro; defencelessly, really…and this is where you would come in."

Sylar laughs. "Harmless wouldn't be my word of choice. But I'm a _reasonable_ man, Adam. You have yourself a deal."

They shake on it, and then stand staring at each other, slightly awkward. After a moment Adam turns around and goes for the door, which Sylar, in his most ridiculous move of all, opens for him.

"Safe passage," Adam reminds him, distrustful to the last, and Sylar gives him a sarcastic look again.

"Don't you trust me?"

"Implicitly."

He gets half way down the corridor before he senses it's time to turn and say, affectedly spur-of-the-moment, "Oh—one more thing. I need you to tell me exactly what happened the last time we met."

For a moment Sylar looks surprised. Then he merely looks disgruntled. "No, you don't," he says finally. "You remember perfectly. That's why you're here."

Adam shrugs. He supposes, after all, that Sylar is right. For some reason, it's disappointing, but that feeling vanishes when he finds Peter and two others waiting for him in the odd little church office from earlier. He can tell which one's Ando immediately, and gives the other man a look of curiosity.

"Who's the spare?" he asks, ignoring the blatant fury Peter is exuding. _Time and a place, Peter_, he thinks loudly, and sees the empath's eyes flash at being told what to do—apparently it's a selective fetish. If only Peter didn't heal so quickly; a bruise would suit him marvellously, and a little lasting pain might make him less reckless. Still, one thing at a time.

"I'm Adam Monroe." Adam takes a step forward and the man gives a tentative smile, and sticks a hand out at the same time as Adam does, and there's a little feigned awkwardness, and then they finally shake. "I am _very _pleased to meet you." Life-insurance, Adam thinks, and after a moment, in a surge of generosity, returns Mohinder's smile as well.


End file.
